


A Celebration in Infinite Combinations

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Early in Canon, Fluff, Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, Holidays, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25507078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: The first year of the five-year mission is a critical time for the crew of the starshipEnterprise. With a new chain of command, a new crew, and a new captain who must prove himself to both, all must work together and learn to function not as a crew, but as a family.Ten mini story arcs revolving around ten sets of characters, all converging in the last chapter.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is a major/minor character exploration piece, written with an intentionally holiday flavor many years ago. It was a deviation from my usual triumvirate-oriented fic, done as a NaNoWriMo warm-up. It's not totally OCs, though, for anyone who is hitting the backspace button right now. 
> 
> So, have a little Christmas in July. (Or any other holiday you celebrate, I tried to make it as non-specific as possible.)

**_Prologue_ **

Captain James Tiberius Kirk was, by all accounts, an unusual man. He was a shooting star in the cosmos of Starfleet, one of the brightest and best all planets had to offer. At the age of thirty-one, he received captaincy of the NCC-1701, the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ , earning a place in Earth's annals as the youngest starship captain in the history of the Federation. No one, new crew and Pike's remaining crew alike, knew what to expect when he beamed aboard to take command of the vessel.

Whatever they had speculated would occur after the usual fanfare had died away, it was certainly not the bright smile, almost child-like in excitement, which greeted them, along with a rapid-fire series of greetings which left them all staring at the energetic human.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Mr. Mitchell, everything ready for departure?"

"Aye, sir," the First flipped a sloppy salute at the man, earning him a disapproving Vulcan eyebrow.

Kirk dismissed him with a nod. "Mr. Spock," he greeted, turning to the austere Vulcan scientist waiting near the transporter room door. "I've found," and he looked ruefully down at his hand, "that I am apparently physically incapable of forming the gesture of greeting your people use to show respect. You'll simply have to take my word for it, Commander, that I've heard a great deal about you and I am honored you decided to remain aboard rather than transferring with many of Captain Pike's crew."

Montgomery Scott, the only senior officer aboard who had known the young Science Officer during Pike's command, saw the surprise register in the dark eyes before the bland, expressionless mask fell back into place.

"The honor is to serve, Captain Kirk."

Kirk nodded, and glanced at the wide-eyed young transporter operator and honor guard. "Mr. Garrovick, Mr. Sukova-Tripana, welcome to the _Enterprise_ ; I trust you'll enjoy your posting. Mr. Tomlinson, thank you for remaining on board. And you must be Chief Engineer Scott. Lieutenant Commander, I'd like a tour of the engine room if you've nothing pressing?"

"Captain," Mitchell interrupted, rolling his eyes at the ensigns' dumbfounded expressions at the captain knowing their names. "Don't you want to unpack and have something to eat first?"

"Later, Gary, _later_. I've got things to _see_!" The human grinned, waving both hands eagerly as he backed out of the room after a thoroughly bemused Chief Engineer.

After the doors closed, the small group looked at each other, blinking.

"He knew my name," Sukova-Tripana muttered, staring at the closed door. "I've served on three ships before this one and no one ever bother to get the order correct."

Gary Mitchell yawned and excused himself shortly after. The inter-comm chirped as he left, and Garrovick punched the button. "Transporter Room."

_"Scott here, Mr. Garrovick. The captain would like his things to be taken to his quarters, laddie; just two boxes, coordinates zero-one-one-alpha-one-eight over one-four-four-three-four-alpha-nine."_

"Aye, sir. Material being transported?"

_"Nothing organic; he says they're just books? As in, actual paper books. No special precautions – Captain! Sir, please dinna touch that!"_

_"Oh, come on, Mr. Scott,"_ the human's voice sounded from further away from the comm. _"I minored in Engineering at the Academy; I'm not likely to blow up my own ship on my first day."_

_" Your ship! With all due respect, sir –"_

_"Oh ho, ownership issues already, Chief Engineer? And I say, this modification here certainly isn't regulation; what Orion pirate did you confiscate that from? You know how much trouble you’d be in if I were an inspecting Commodore?"_

Faint laughter, and the channel closed abruptly without further instructions.

"As you were, gentlemen," Spock intoned gravely, and the bug-eyed ensigns scrambled to obey their severe Science Officer before he finally left the room and they could breathe once more.

Just the same, as he beamed up two ordinary containers from the coordinates given to him, Garrovick sent a sidelong look toward his mate. "Minored in _Engineering_? And these crates are full of _books_?"

"He’s either more boring than Pike was, or a few crystals short of a dilithium chamber,” Tomlinson said sagely, inputting the coordinates with practiced ease.

“Saints preserve us," was the devout mutter he received in answer, and then they set to work.

* * *

Word spreads quickly on a starship, and the _Enterprise_ was well-equipped with one of the busiest gossip chains in the 'Fleet. Before they'd cleared spacedock, everyone aboard was aware of the fact that their captain was very much not what anyone had expected.

His first night aboard, Kirk appropriated the ship-wide comm to inform the crew that he wasn't some pompous stuffed shirt and for heaven's sake stop the saluting in the corridors, it interfered with efficiency. The second week, he vetoed the regulation of repeating orders across the Bridge, informing a thoroughly aghast Commander Spock that they made his head spin, and anyway if a crewman couldn't listen well enough _the first time_ then he didn't deserve to be on alpha shift Bridge duty and would be promptly booted off of it.

The third month he was aboard, he pitched a very loud and attention-grabbing fit in Rec Room Four over the fact that the Lower Decks meal and beverage selectors on board had only four non-Terran options programmed, and proceeded to tear the casing off and re-program the selector in question as demonstration for a dozen gaping Engineering and Recreational Programming crewmen. Spock watched in horrified fascination from the door as the young human popped back up from his tinkering after twenty minutes amid a chorus of whispers and a few skeptical snorts. A cheerful "Andorian sugar loaf, anyone?" accompanied by the chime of a completed meal selection, and the room broke into delighted applause followed by a clamor of requests for all sorts of meals, Terran or otherwise, which unfortunately left him the job of extricating the now overwhelmed human from the fray (and twelve hours later, softening the language of the incensed memorandum to the Admiralty that Kirk had put in the outbox regarding the state of their meal selectors aboard).

Two weeks later, Kirk disappeared one evening after officers’ mess, and when Lieutenant Hadley of Environmental Control finally located him four hours later with a requisition needing immediate signature, he found the young captain buried deep in Botany Lab Three, sprawled on the small plot of reproduced Terran grass-and-daisy mix, nose buried deep in an old, paperbound novel. The lieutenant only shook his head at the rueful greeting and explanatory "raised on a farm, you know," he received, and was pleased to have a story to tell at the Lower Decks poker night the following evening.

The sixth month of the man's captaincy, the command structure underwent major upheaval with the death of First Officer Gary Mitchell, the terrible stigma of which extinguished some of that youthful light and energy for a time as the crew, and their captain, reeled in the wake of tragedy. Personnel were shifted, and some of them transferred, having seen the Great Barrier and wanting no part of the Federation's trouble magnet of a flagship. The chain of command morphed into a close-knit knot of people whose sole goal was to prevent what had happened on their shakedown from ever happening again.

For a few weeks following the inception of their actual five-year mission, the _Enterprise_ was relatively calm; and then with the addition of Leonard McCoy as Chief Medical Officer the tranquility – and the slightly subdued personality of their captain – was shattered into a thousand pieces and flung all across the galaxy. The CMO was good for the young captain, bringing out that unique energy which characterized Kirk's rise through the ranks, and within six months the ship was again running half on warp power, half on the charisma of her commander.

Which was why, nine months after their launch, no one was at all surprised to learn that the captain had some insane scheme in the works for the Terran holiday season.

"Jim, that's lame," was McCoy's typically unenthusiastic response, and while Kirk didn't think his First was any more thrilled with the idea the Vulcan took his side half out of loyalty and half out of desire to be contrary toward their Chief Medical Officer.

"I do not believe so," the Vulcan mused, studying the psychological readouts before him. "Statistically speaking, it is a proven fact that most humans' psychological profiles dip downward during the winter season even in space, due to the emotion which I believe is known as _homesickness_."

"I'm not arguin' that point, SAD for some reason still follows a human circadian rhythm to some extent. That’s why we have an extra medical budget for solar lighting in the last third of the calendar," McCoy muttered gracelessly. "But honestly, Jim – a ‘Secret Santa’ gift exchange?"

"Half the crew doesn’t even celebrate Christmas, so stop calling it that, Bones," the captain retorted, scowling. "I'd just like to see an activity to stop these little cliques I'm seeing popping up all over the ship. If we have it sufficiently randomized, then it will force the crew to interact and socialize with those whom they normally don't. Cliques detract from a spirit of unity, of camaraderie, and they have no place aboard a starship. Spock, you can program the computer to pair up people who don't usually see much of each other, can't you?"

"Affirmative."

"You're not going to have everybody happy about it. It’s a person’s right to not celebrate holidays, Jim."

"That's why I'm not making it mandatory, and I'm not calling it a _Christmas_ or _Solstice_ or _Hanukkah_ gift exchange or anything else," the captain explained, waving a hand in the air to emphasize his point. "It'll be completely voluntary, and it'll just be an exercise to create a spirit of family among the crew. Let's face it, gentlemen," he added soberly. "For the next five years, this _is_ our family. Male and female and non-binary and every other gender, human and Vulcan and all those in-between – we are a family now. And if we don't work to keep that, we'll never be able to live with each other for five years."

His impassioned plea earned him two identical raised eyebrows on either side of the table, before the two beings he had grown in nine months to trust with his life and his ship exchanged a cautious look.

"Well, it can't hurt anything. Will probably do some good, actually," McCoy finally agreed as a rare grin lit up his face, reaching all the way to his eyes. "Though I feel bad for whatever poor soul you draw in the exchange, Mr. Spock."

"You don't have to participate, Spock; it's hardly a Vulcan tradition," the captain was quick to interject.

Spock's eyebrow rose a fraction. "Any occasion, human in origin or otherwise, which engenders a spirit of compassion and peace, is quite laudable, Captain. I have no objections to the traditions associated with the Terran winter holidays."

Kirk fairly beamed, and McCoy hid his smile, knowing full well how much the captain seemed to rely on Vulcan approval for pretty much anything aboard.

"Besides," the Vulcan continued, as he swiveled a computer screen toward him and began tapping commands into the central core, "to refuse to participate would, I believe, defeat your purpose in fostering a spirit of camaraderie amongst the crew, Captain; would it not?"

"It would," McCoy interjected, smirking. "So by that same logic we can expect to see you at the annual Winter Holiday Party, now can't we."

Spock's brows clenched fearsomely, while the captain clapped in utter glee. "He's got you there, Spock."

"Captain –"

"We'll talk about it when the time comes," the man chuckled, standing. "If you'll let me know when that program is completed, I'll alert the crew to the plan. I think two months is plenty of time for them to get to know their recipient and decide upon a gift, you think?"

"Quite. I shall forward you the access codes when it is complete; once distributed, each crewman need only access the _Enterprise_ 's computer banks under the Holiday Observances folder to be assigned a recipient."

"Great. Doctor, anything to add?"

"Make sure you limit the program parameters to those who want to participate, Spock, so we don't end up with someone giving a gift and not getting one in return," the man answered, glancing at the busily-typing Vulcan. "And we still have to go over those psych evals for the lower decks, Captain."

"Right, let's get started then," the captain declared, moving toward the door. McCoy followed close at his heels. "Oh, dinner still on for tonight, Mr. Spock?" Kirk added, pausing before the doors.

"Affirmative." The tone was expressionless, and the Vulcan never even looked up; and yet Kirk grinned as if he'd been granted the deed to the moon.

McCoy rolled his eyes as he followed the captain out, and only hoped whoever drew Spock's name got him something so utterly _illogical_ Spock would be ashamed to keep it around.


	2. Chapter One

**_Chapter One_ **

"No, we are _not_ going to expend half our daily allotment of recreation power in using the Atmospheric Control motherboard to create an ice skating rink on the floor of the shuttle bay. You and your friends stop bothering Mr. Scott about it, is that clear, Mr. Turner?"

The captain's eyes were laughing, belying the severity of his words but not the genuine order behind them, and the young man nodded regretfully, grinning. "Aye, sir."

"You want to plan anything out of the ordinary for the holidays, it needs to be cleared through Mr. Scott and Lieutenant Uhura before coming to me for final approval – and don't forget that we will be on yellow alert status during the two weeks prior to Christmas; nothing can interfere with the smooth workings of this ship. Understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"Dismissed, then."

The young man repossessed his data-padd and moved back to his group of fellow Engineering personnel, who were deep in a poker game three tables over from the tri-D chess board over which First Officer Spock was most civilly destroying his captain’s closing gambit.

"Kids these days," Kirk muttered jokingly, as he edged a rook three spaces forward, hoping Spock wouldn't foresee what he had in mind.

He received an eyebrow of skepticism before his First calmly took the rook. "This, from Starfleet's youngest Captain?"

"Here here, watch it," he chuckled as he moved a pawn out of the way. "Even I was never green enough to ask to refurbish the floor of a shuttle bay for ice skating."

"And yet, you are even now envisioning how it might be done, for a short period of time at least, without endangering the ship."

"Just for that, I'm going to checkmate you in four.”

"I believe the proper response is, _I should like to see you try_. Sir."

"If I win, you field Komack's call tomorrow about the data stream corruption from the third sensor array?"

"Done."

"Good." He smirked, and moved a bishop into position. "Mate in three, Commander."

* * *

Matthew Turner was of Northern British stock, a pleasant young man with an accent just barely perceptible in normal speech and highly pronounced when excited. At the age of eighteen he had entered Starfleet Academy with a major in Engineering, minoring in Temporal Physics. Having functioned for many years as something of an unaware hero, Montgomery Scott discovered him while on shore leave during the last months of Pike's captaincy and had recommended the young man for posting aboard the _Enterprise_ under her new crew.

Turner adored Scott, and spent so much time at his work that he gathered the reputation of being something of a workaholic during the first six months aboard. Gradually, under the influence of the _Enterprise_ 's easygoing captain, he grew to understand that he was not under a trial period as some ships held their personnel, and that Kirk was the sort of commander who didn't much care how you got the job done so long as it got done without endangering your shipmates.

The first week aboard, Kirk had done the unthinkable, and fraternized each night with his crew in the lower decks. It was unheard-of for a ranking officer to really have much to do with the inner workings of the ship, and still less for such an officer to spend much time below decks of a constitution-class ship.

And yet, the third night out of spacedock, Turner and a group of his Engineering and Bio-lab mates had been playing poker in a half-deserted Rec Room Nine when the doors opened and in strolled Captain James T. Kirk, a cup of coffee in his hand and bland smile on his face.

They had all snapped to attention, of course, nearly knocking over the table in the process, but they'd barely left their seats when Kirk was waving them back with his free hand.

"Please," he said after another drink. "As you were."

"Um," was the general reply, along with worried looks exchanged around the table. A commanding officer visiting below decks never was a good sign.

"You don't think those rumors about the still in Engineering are true, do you?" he whispered to his left. Leslie blinked and shrugged, shooting Kirk a worried look.

"Poker, gentlemen?" Kirk inquired, walking up to the table and looking down at the game. "Not for money, I hope?"

"No, sir!"

"Absolutely not, sir!"

"Of course not, sir!"

Gambling was forbidden aboard any starship vessel, they were all well aware. That didn't mean betting pools didn't circulate, and it didn't mean that gambling didn't take place – but no one who was smart enough to get posted on the _Enterprise_ was stupid enough to blatantly break regulation in the middle of a public recreation area.

Kirk surveyed the board with a disapproving eye. "If there’s no risk, gentlemen, where’s the fun in the game?"

Turner gaped until Ensign Sulu kicked him under the table, upon which he remembered to close his mouth. Sulu glanced cautiously at the figure looming over the table. "To be honest, Captain, it'd be a lot more interesting if we were allowed to," the young man said slowly, but watching shrewdly for Kirk's reaction to the daring statement.

The captain took another drink of his coffee. "I've no objections to your wagering over a friendly game, Mr. Sulu, provided it's not actual credits or contraband. There's nothing on the books against betting edibles, for instance."

Silence fell over the table.

"Seriously?" Ensign Marta, a petite redhead from Hydroponics (Turner had found that out the first time he'd seen her in department meetings) asked incredulously.

"Seriously," the captain responded dryly, grinning at their surprised expressions. The man hooked the empty chair at the table with one foot and yanked it out. "When I was serving on the _Farragut_ we would bet potato chips against gingersnaps, or whatever we had on us at the time," he informed them as he sat. "My cabin-mate had a grandmother who made the best brownies this side of Altair VI, let me tell you."

Turner eyed the others, who were all darting glances around the table, measuring up this unusual commander they'd been assigned to serve under.

"Well, ante up already; don't let me stop you," the captain encouraged, gesturing with his coffee cup.

Sulu grinned suddenly, and turned to Marta and Turner, the only others of the group who were still in. "I'll see whatever you've got and raise you two hours' Botany lab duty tomorrow, traded for your evening Maintenance checks."

"That's not much of a shift swap," Marta scoffed.

"Two hours during Mr. Spock's weekly _inspection_ ," the young man qualified, smirking.

They all winced, and Kirk laughed. "That's more like it," the captain said, smiling. He stood once more, waving them back to their chairs when they made to follow. "I've no problem with friendly competition, gentlemen; just nothing that could impact a crewman’s quality of life. Or _clothes_ ," he amended wryly as they all exchanged meaningful glances. "There will be no strip poker on my ship, at least in public rec rooms. Understood?"

"Understood, Captain."

Kirk turned to leave. "I'll leave you to it then."

"Would you like to stay for a game, sir?" Turner blurted, earning him six mildly appalled looks from his fellows and a small, playful smile from his captain.

"Ask me again when you know me better, Ensign," was the enigmatic reply, and the man disappeared through the doors without another word.

Three months later, they all knew the Kirk power of bluff well enough to be capable of asking him again, and well enough to know they would be decimated if they did.

On the one occasion Kirk was seen playing with a group of officers in Rec Room Two above decks, according to Lieutenant Sulu after his promotion, the captain had wiped out the entirety of the command chain in less than an hour, earning him some eighteen hours off-duty and an eclectic assortment of cookies, potato chips, alcohol (that bit was unsupported by official evidence, as it wasn't exactly regulation and no one could verify McCoy had really brought it from Sickbay of all places), and _kreyla_ (1). Sulu informed them, laughing hysterically while he did, that the captain had returned the off-duty hours to their losing owners, shared the snacks and alcohol around the table, and after tasting one of the _kreyla_ and promptly choking on it, handed the biscuits back to his First, remarking that it really wasn't worth the headache of trying to out-bluff a Vulcan.

But the poker game wasn't forgotten, nor the fact that the captain had taken not only that night, but many thereafter, to spend time with his lower decks. He would pop into various rec rooms and study corners just to chat with his crew, talking for a few minutes and then leaving before his presence could become awkward. Once he joined in a round-robin table-tennis game, twice he spent a few moments playing Altarian checkerboard or other games, and many times he simply strolled through, nodding and greeting his crew, all of which he knew by name.

As a result, the lower decks grew to look forward to seeing their commanding officer among them, instead of dreading the visits of authority as happened on many starships. Turner began using his free time in frequenting the recreation halls instead of working longer hours in Engineering, due to the amount of people he met while waiting for Kirk's nightly visits.

Eventually he grew confident enough to ask the man regarding the ice skating rink in question, and though he carried the disappointment of denial back to his comrades he was the object of much congratulatory back-slapping for having made the attempt.

Besides, it was worth being shot down over the ice-skating rink, just to be able to watch Commander Spock's face when the captain pulled a victory out of thin air ten minutes later and then spent five minutes crowing with glee over being able to beat a Vulcan at a game of logic.

Life was good.

Until the week they had to spend patrolling a semi-charted area of space, looking for space scavengers – pirates, in other words – which Starfleet suspected had been waylaying small Starfleet freighters and relieving them of their cargo, sending the crew out in damaged escape pods before blowing the ships themselves into the next quadrant.

For three days, nothing happened, and then on the fourth all hell exploded (literally, in the case of the Engineering deck), and he got to meet the _Enterprise_ 's resident irascible country doctor up front and personal. Granted, he was trapped under a partially-fallen bulkhead, bleeding out from both legs, at the time, and so wasn't overly concerned with getting to see their infamous Chief Medical Officer in all his glory, screeching orders right and left and somehow managing to be gentle with him and Lieutenant Shomari at the same time. Shomari had been right under the bulkhead when it malfunctioned under the pirate fire, and he didn't want to think about how long a woman could survive with three feet of solid durasteel pinning half her chest and shoulder to the floor.

McCoy was as gentle as possible, and she still screamed.

He heard it for hours, long after they'd been extricated and taken to Sickbay, long after he'd been sedated and surgery done to the frayed ligaments in his legs and neural regeneration to the damaged nerves, long after the Captain had brought Lieutenant Uhura down with severe burns to her hands from an exploding console and stayed, white-faced, to hear McCoy's casualty report, long after his room-mate had come in to slap him commiseratingly on the shoulder and bring him something that tasted better than the Sickbay nutrient drinks.

Long after McCoy told him, when he woke up and asked, that Shomari was dead; there'd been nothing even he could do for someone with a crushed left ribcage.

Shomari's death haunted him for a long time; she'd been a brilliant engineer, and a darn good friend. He didn't know her as well as he knew some of his co-workers, because she’d transferred aboard after the shakedown cruise, newly arrived back on Terra from a stint on another ship, but in the three weeks their shifts had coincided he had begun to think of her as just one of those crewmen who existed and are genuinely _good people_. Shomari had saved three computer techs the day she died, by overriding the malfunctioning emergency bulkhead programming long enough for them to escape their smoke-filled computer control room.

Turner had never really believed in karma, but when he went to his terminal a week later to draw his name for the Captain's Gift Exchange (or whatever they were calling it), he thought twice about believing in it.

Because he drew the name of Lieutenant Lisa West; Ardia Shomari's roommate.

West hadn't been seen much in the week since Shomari's funeral; she and Shomari had known each other through the Academy, had served first on the U.S.S. _Constellation_ as ensigns before being assigned to the _Enterprise_ 's Engineering staff. West was a quiet, intelligent girl – brilliant but not really the type to attract a wide circle of friends – and everyone knew below decks that she'd been taking the loss of her friend and roommate really hard. Turner couldn't imagine how awkward it would be, accustomed to sharing space with someone and then suddenly finding that they're never coming back, and having to deal with their personal belongings and an empty room.

Ship gossip told the story that there had been talk of crew reshuffling after that disastrous battle with Huraon pirates, but the captain had overruled Commander Spock's recommendation, saying that they weren't going to fill empty holes left by their deceased crew for several weeks yet, that he wasn't about to rearrange personnel and stick crewmen into the rooms of the dead without thought to their friends and, for all intents and purposes, their family – for this ship _was_ a family.

Now, Turner had three weeks left before the Winter Holiday Party, and he knew next to nothing about Lieutenant Lisa West. What sort of gift would be appropriate, and would she even feel like receiving one?

He seized the opportunity to ask advice of the ship's counselor, Dr. Helen Noel, when he was undergoing physical therapy at the same time as an informal psychiatric evaluation after the trauma of injury and their first real space battle. (2)

Dr. Noel was a very attractive woman, one who he quite studiously avoided indicating such to as she was all business and very much not interested in anything besides her work. As it should be, and yet it made him feel a little uncomfortable discussing such a thing as death, with someone who could detach herself well enough from the horror to discuss it so very clinically. Nonetheless, he finally asked her what she knew about Lisa West.

"Doctor-patient confidentiality, Mr. Turner; you know that as well as I do," was the not unexpected answer, delivered in a curtly professional tone.

"I don't mean any medical details, Doctor," he clarified quickly. "I've…well, I've drawn her name for the gift exchange, and I don't want to give her something that she'd find…insensitive."

The woman's eyes warmed, and she relaxed. "That's different," Noel replied, smiling. "It's a good sign you’re thinking about returning to a social life and the upcoming holidays, Mr. Turner."

"Lieutenant Shomari was a wonderful person," he replied quietly. "She's a loss to everyone."

"But you are dealing with that loss as you should in this business, Mr. Turner," Noel answered gently. "By thinking of others. That is really one of the best ways to help absolve the pain of grief, to care for another person. Now," she continued, seeing his discomfort at the personal revelation of his psyche, "about Lieutenant West."

"Yes?"

"She is a rather quiet woman, introverted by nature, Mr. Turner; I believe you already know that. Very simple in tastes, very calm, very intelligent, very feminine. She's not the type to really want impersonal expressions of sympathy, or the usual useless gifts and propaganda with which the commercial half of this Terran holiday is flooded."

"That's not really all that helpful, Doctor," he interjected dryly.

Noel smiled at him. "You're going to have to think about it a bit, Mr. Turner. Put your mind to it, and think. Remember that gifts are not always objects; sometimes they are actions, and sometimes they are words. I'm not going to tell you what to gift her; you will have to get to know her yourself, even if you don’t form a lasting friendship much beyond shared grief. I believe this will be good for both of you."

He bit back the "gee, thanks" that rose to his lips, and instead only nodded and returned to the psyche scan she was finishing. Once released, he spent the evening lounging about Rec Room Three in his hoverchair (he had still not regained full mobility; dermal and neural regenerators could only do so much, and it would be another two weeks before he would be back on full duty), watching the new Russian whiz kid beat the pants off an entire combined Engineering team at speed-Sudoku.

He wasn't expecting to see Captain Kirk that evening, but the man picked that rec room and that hour to pop in, surprising everyone with his appearance. The man smiled, waved them all back to their stations, casually pointed out a wrong number in Chekov's eighteenth puzzle, and then plopped down beside Turner in a vacant chair.

"How're you coming along, Ensign?" the man asked, turning his full attention to the young man.

"Well enough," he answered, ruefully regarding the soft plasticast around both his legs. "Dr. McCoy says I should be back on half-duty in another five days, full duty in two weeks. If I obey his orders, that is."

The captain's grin lit up the room. "Giving you trouble, is he?"

Turner smiled thinly, his mind on the patient even McCoy's expertise couldn't save.

"It’s his way of showing love. You should have seen him after the mission on Jairus II," Kirk reminisced, smiling, and he leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed in the distance.

"Was that the one where Mr. Spock dragged you out from under a seven-foot panther?"

"It wasn't exactly a panther, strictly speaking, but yes," the man agreed, face twisting in remembrance. "Bones literally wouldn't let me move a finger for five days after he stitched up my stomach cavity. Had my bio-bed programmed to sound an alarm if I so much as rolled over in my sleep. I tried disconnecting it halfway through the seventh night. I think he woke the entire recovery ward up when he caught me in the act."

Turner chuckled, the suddenness of the sound startling him. He blinked as his mind processed the rawness of amusement, for the first time in a week.

Kirk smiled and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees and hands loosely clasped before him. "Oh, that was nothing compared to the next morning. Commander Spock tried to sneak strawberry waffles in to me for breakfast, only to have the change in my blood glucose set off a klaxon loud enough to nearly give me a heart attack. Bones was _not_ a merry man. And I don’t think I’d ever seen Spock try to actually hide behind a nurse before.”

Turner was laughing outright now at the very thought, the utter _weirdness_ of the idea of their severe Vulcan CSO sneaking anything _anywhere_ , and then hiding from McCoy’s ranting…it was hysterical, and he leaned back in his chair, just letting the warmth of laughter flood through him and banish some of the chill that seemed to always linger now.

He only realized just what he was doing when Kirk rose, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You looked like you needed that," the man said simply, by way of explanation, and then left the rec room with only a smile and a nod of farewell.

Turner stared after him, lost in thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Kreyla_ – a Vulcan breakfast biscuit (Vulcan belVita?)  
> (2) Dr. Noel is not of my creation; she's seen in only one early episode, Dagger of the Mind.


	3. Chapter Two

**_Chapter Two_ **

The third day after he'd come aboard as Chief Medical Officer, Leonard McCoy had informed his new Captain in no uncertain terms that he expected to have access to the Bridge whenever and whyever he wanted, and if the captain didn't like it then he could transfer him at the next Starbase. _Sir_.

It had been a gamble, but a calculated one; he was nobody's fool and had studied the psych profiles of his young CO in detail before coming aboard. Kirk's had intrigued, horrified, and amused him in turns, and one thing he had to do first and foremost was learn how to act with the man to accomplish both what he wanted, and what was best for the captain.

He wasn't in error in his evaluation. After an initial incredulous look, Kirk had laughed aloud at his mild insolence and agreed with no real argument. He had gone on to add with a smirk that he could see why the physician's previous captain had been over-eager to be rid of his meddling, and then warned the physician to not overstep himself in the presence of his subordinates or get in the way of the workings of his ship.

He and Kirk developed something of an odd relationship almost immediately upon his replacing Mark Piper as Chief Medical Officer (1). McCoy had heard about the tragedy at the Galactic Barrier, and saw its ramifications ripple outward through the crew's psych profiles – including that of her captain, who by reports had been one of Mitchell's closest friends. Kirk appeared to be dealing with the loss fairly well, but McCoy made it a point to keep a close eye upon the man: for a happy crew required a happy captain. And besides, McCoy liked the younger man quite a bit; he was a refreshing change from the usual starship captain in the physician's experience; one who could give as good as he got, and in fact excelled the most brilliantly when he was relentlessly challenged, rather than obsequiously obeyed.

Lieutenant-Commander Spock (2) was an entirely different story. McCoy disliked him instantly upon their first meeting. Granted, that first meeting was during a space battle, when Vulcan calm and disregard for human emotional loss was at its most irritating, as hell broke loose around them; but still, the Vulcan grated on his nerves like no one else aboard. That supercilious expression, the constant vocalization of superiority, the unruffled and therefore inhuman face upon things which would make any sane man cringe? It was just downright _unnatural_ , and despite the fact that he was anything but xenophobic it still rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn't that Spock was Vulcan, or even that he was non-human; that wasn't the issue.

McCoy just flat didn't like Mr. Spock as a _person_ , and that's all there was to it.

That was, until one evening in Sickbay, when he realized something very important. As Chief Medical Officer, he'd been charting the mental health conditions of the command chain, noting when their moods spiked and then investigating possible causes and effects, so as to counter-balance them properly in eating and recreational habits. Out here in the black, this was almost a more important duty than keeping tabs on physical health, as one’s mental health could easily change aboard a ship one was never meant to live on for extended periods, and there were still precious few studies that had been done in xenopsychologic circles about the fact.

And he found something very interesting.

Kirk's psyche profile had crashed after the death/execution of Gary Mitchell. The whole crew had reeled from that, partly because the dynamic First Officer had been well-liked, or at least not actively disliked, by nearly everyone; and partly because Dr. Dehner and Lee Kelso had also been key figures in ship's interactions. They were the first three deaths the new _Enterprise_ had had aboard, on a shakedown which should have had no casualties at all; and that fact alone was cause for stress and distress in the chain of command.

But Mitchell had been one of Kirk's best friends, and the man would understandably take many weeks to fully assimilate and get over the loss of such a friend. The captain's mental indications showed that for at least twenty-four hours he was incapable of command based upon emotional compromise, after which he showed steady improvement. This indicated a strong mind, one that recognized and responded to the call of duty far more readily than that of emotion – a crucial trait in a commanding officer, and one that McCoy knew had to be a key factor in Kirk's success as an officer. But that wasn't what interested him about Kirk's mental scans.

The captain's mandatory weekly brain scans, prior to the incident at the Barrier, had been quite interesting. Furiously racing highs and dangerously depressed lows seemed to be periodic during the mood map he compiled from the shakedown cruise. Both those and other indications indicated some past trauma or intense stressor, something serious enough to cause unusually wide mood swings in an otherwise fairly balanced personality; a past trauma, since he’d never seen any outward or visible indication of what his scans were telling him. Whatever that trauma had been, it must be either too personal for record or else classified, for McCoy could find no indicators in his files about it – but it was there nonetheless, and he kept an eye on the possibilities the scans indicated. (3)

This was one reason he began to covertly snipe at the captain, teasing him and coaxing him and provoking him by turns, to release some of that stress that would weigh on any man, especially Starfleet's youngest starship commander. Kirk responded beautifully to his advances, both the friendly ones and the therapeutic ones, and if the man was going to snap at someone it would be better off being his Chief Medical Officer than some poor unsuspecting crewman. Kirk was obviously carrying some heavy mental baggage, even if he himself might not be quite aware of the toll it was taking on his mental health; and it was the CMO’s job to assist, even if the patient wasn’t aware of it at the time. McCoy had a thick skin, and he could take it, especially during those crucial first few months of their five-year mission, in which the whole galaxy was watching the _Enterprise_ and her new, brilliant crew, scrutinizing them publicly as the flagship of the Federation.

And then, about six months into the voyage, he began to notice a change.

Kirk's stress indicators began to decline and drop, to a point where they had never been so low, even before the business with Mitchell. The man's moods leveled even more than they had been, his psyche profile dropping into an almost perfect range, the only aberrations in it being those intensely stressful moments where the ship and her crew were in danger. Kirk's tact, diplomacy, ability to think under fire – all of them grew more pronounced, and McCoy simply couldn't quite figure out how and why.

Then, one morning, he suddenly realized.

 _And here my staff say **I'm** cranky when I don't get enough sleep_, he thought as James T. Kirk entered Officers' Mess with don't-even-talk-to-me-until-after-my-coffee written all over his grumpy countenance.

The sole yeoman who was brave enough to chirp a cheery good-morning to his captain was somewhat mystified to receive only a warning glare in return as Kirk got his own coffee from the selector and slumped into the chair next to his Chief Medical Officer. Luckily, the young redshirt was good-natured himself and only refrained from laughing at his commanding officer’s mood, rather than taking offense at it, and merely dropped the waiting padd for signature on the table in front of Kirk before moving swiftly back into the breakfast line.

McCoy had no such restrictions, and chuckled into his heavily-sweetened tea.

"Mornin', Sunshine," he drawled, spooning artificial sweetener over his oatmeal.

He received a one-eyed glare over the rim of the coffee cup, and hastily turned his attention back to his eggs.

A moment (and half the coffee cup) later, he tried again. "Not a morning person, then?"

"Very observant, Doctor," was the clipped reply.

After greeting the newly-promoted Lieutenant Sulu, who settled in the seat across from them with a nod, he paused for a moment to take in the dark circles under the captain's eyes, and then remembered the trouble they'd had after those pirates had nicked the hull in the Engineering section; they'd not only lost five good engineers, but the repairs had already been underway for forty-eight hours and were likely to continue for another forty-eight. Kirk had engineering experience, and it was common knowledge that he was fond of working with the mechanics on his ship rather than sitting by and watching the repairs. No doubt he'd been at it again last night.

"You should be eating something more nutritious than that sludge you call coffee, Jim," he observed mildly, nudging a plate of toast squares toward the exhausted-looking man.

The captain eyed the dubiously textured bread cubes with distaste, looking slightly nauseated. "You should talk; just how much sugar do you people put in that 'sweet tea,' anyway?"

Sulu was _not_ doing a very good job of hiding his laughter behind his napkin.

Indignant, he was about to defend the properties of the sacred beverage when a clunk drew his attention to the captain's other side.

"Spock?"

"Good morning, Captain, Lieutenant, Doctor McCoy." The Vulcan calmly shoved a tray in front of his captain. Kirk looked blankly down at the plate of small waffles, fruit, and bacon.

"Your breakfast, Captain." A second clunk followed the first, and two data-padds were placed in position. The one Yeoman Perze had left on the table soon followed at the bottom of the stack. "Your notes from last night's briefing with Admiral Komack, and the extra fuel requisitions to ensure repairs continue on schedule. Your signature is required on lines three, seven, and thirteen; your initials on the bottom left of the next three pages." A clink, and Spock deftly removed the empty coffee cup, replacing it with a full one. "You are due on the Bridge in precisely twenty-three-point five minutes, sir, at which time you asked I remind you of the conference call to Starfleet Headquarters regarding the Huraon pirate incident. Do you require anything else at this time?"

"Um," was the captain's bewildered response. "I didn't require this much? You’re not my yeoman, Spock.”

“Obviously. Were I, I would have ensured you did not spend the majority of your intended sleep hours in Secondary Engineering. I will be having words with Yeoman Rand on the matter.”

Sulu choked on a cornflake, hastily covering the noise with a gulp of his own coffee.

“That’s not necessary, Commander, but…thank you?" The _I think_ was quite clear in the captain’s still-confused tone.

Spock inclined his head in gracious acceptance. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen. You as well, Doctor."

"Hey!" he spluttered as the door closed behind the Vulcan, his befuddled mind belatedly registering the insult.

The captain was still staring down at the perfectly symmetrical tray, blinking cluelessly at the miniature whipped cream-topped waffles and three flawless strips of replicated bacon. "What on _earth_?"

"I think he likes you, Captain," Sulu offered helpfully, digging cheerfully back into his cereal.

" _I_ think he's out of his Vulcan _mind_ ," McCoy retorted, snagging a slice of peach off his CO’s plate. Until now, he hadn’t even known the darn selectors even _could_ put whipped cream on the waffles.

Someone was spoiled.

He chewed it slowly, wishing for the true melty goodness of a real Georgia peach, and watched as the captain signed off on his requisitions, skimmed the reports waiting for him, and only then turned his attention to the meal at hand. Kirk surveyed the tray again in disbelief, but it wasn't but a few minutes later that a slow smile began to work its way across the man's face – and suddenly McCoy realized just who it was that had been the cause of the minute changes he'd seen take place in the captain's psychological profile.

Whether he saw eye-to-eye with Commander Spock or not, it was a proven medical fact that he was good for Captain James T. Kirk – and that was good enough in his book.

Didn't mean he would ever _like_ the hobgoblin.

* * *

McCoy was never one to wait until an emergency popped up to prepare for one, and so he had, during his first week aboard, begun to go through the medical records for all personnel aboard, noting any allergies or unusual conditions which might crop up unexpectedly (the last thing he needed was to administer an antibiotic in the chaos of field triage and have the patient go into shock because he didn't have the anomalies memorized). It was in this process that he noticed some slight aberrations in the captain's eating habits. Nothing which warranted dieting yet, but a significant enough fluctuation that indicated an extremely fast metabolism and a tendency to literally forget to eat until the body demanded it. And it was in this process that he also noticed one significant fact about the First Officer: that the _Enterprise_ medical records held basically nothing regarding Vulcan physiology.

The Starfleet medical database was of little help, as there were few Vulcans serving in Starfleet and apparently the species had some incredible self-healing powers of their own. He could find little in circulation about the species besides basic anatomy charts and pharmaceutical information, and that simply would not do.

The Chief Science Officer was thoroughly not happy to be called down to Sickbay for a mandatory physical McCoy's seventh week aboard.

And he said so, in entirely unemotional terms, of course.

"I'm not happy with the state of Dr. Piper's files regarding your health and treatment parameters, Mr. Spock," he retorted after the Vulcan had finished telling him quite logically why he was wasting both their times. "If you go and nearly die on us, I wouldn't have the faintest clue how to save your life. There's nothing in here even to indicate what bio-bed readings are usual for you – and that's unacceptable for the First Officer of a starship! You served for over a decade under Captain Pike, there should be a basic workup at least!"

"Doctor, I assure you, were I in fact dying, your attempts to save my life would most likely be superfluous. In other instances, the anatomical knowledge you have should suffice to allow treatment for injury."

"And just what am I supposed to do if you come down with the flu or something?" he demanded irritably, waving an empty hypospray case in the stubborn Vulcan's general direction.

"Vulcans do not 'come down' with any of your human ailments, Doctor; our immune systems are far superior. This is the primary reason why your records appear to you to be inconclusive; in reality, they are simply not necessary. During my eleven years as Science Officer under Captain Pike, I rarely was in need of medical attention and then only under extreme circumstances."

"Mr. Spock. In the seven weeks Jim Kirk has been captain of this flying tin can, y'all have been shot at three times by natives with spears and/or dart guns, fallen off a cliff once, been thrown across the Bridge in a battle twice, and been infected with radiation or poison from plants on uncharted planets twice. I think the stats are changing in favor of you needing medical attention a little bit more often than you did under Captain Pike," he replied dryly. “And if you insist on accompanying that gold-shirted trouble magnet on every away team, the _mathematical probability_ of you getting caught in the cross-fire is a lot higher than it was in your previous position.”

The Vulcan did not look amused to be so out-maneuvered by Facts, and was less than gracious during the brief examination McCoy basically bullied the First into performing by threatening to tell the Captain that his CSO was unfit for duty due to being so _illogical_ as to refuse something that might mean the difference between life and death for an officer of the _Enterprise_. Kirk would never tolerate an officer doing anything which might in future endanger the ship or her crew, and they both knew it.

 _Note to self_ , he thought with grim glee, playing the _Jim_ card apparently was always a trump.

Quite logical, really.

His short examination of the _Enterprise_ 's resident walking database was less than satisfactory, though he couldn't in good faith blame Spock for that. That hybrid physiology would likely require as much experimentation as anything else, and that was one thing he didn't enjoy; experimentation should be done in a controlled environment in a laboratory, not in a Sickbay operating room with a man's life on the line.

Be that as it may, it was as good as he was going to get, and he set about adding what information he could to the _Enterprise_ 's medical banks. Then he proceeded to set his head nurse to scouring the intranets and databases of the galaxy in an effort to ascertain anything reliable (meaning from the Vulcan Science Academy itself, probably) regarding the health and physiology of the Vulcan race.

Chapel was a good researcher, and a decent scientist, but she turned up nothing except (to his horrified regret, because he probably started it) one illogical Vulcan planet-sized _crush_ on the patient in question.

He'd opened a can of worms there, no mistake, and it came back to bite him hard during the Psi2000 crisis, when instead of helping him synthesize an antivirus for the malady sweeping the ship, Chapel was mooning in Sickbay over a man who would never even dream of returning the emotion. Someday he might laugh about it, but during those tense hours it was _so_ not amusing.

He did remember the incident well, though, not really for the amazing way his lab teams functioned to do the impossible and produce an antivirus before the whole crew died or went off the deep end, but because it gave him the first glimpse he'd had in those months aboard of the fact that their stolidly Vulcan First Officer wasn't just a machine, as he sometimes half-believed.

It was just a sentence, uttered when the Vulcan returned to the Bridge; a quick, low-voiced "Are you all right, Jim?" (4) – but he heard the lack of title plainly for the first time, and saw the open concern spilling out of the dark eyes. He knew the two of them had both been infected at one point, and as CMO he'd been sent Security reports of a violent altercation going on in one of the _Enterprise_ 's briefing rooms about an hour before; he also knew that bruise on the side of Jim's face hadn't come from walking into an _automatic_ sliding door.

But it was none of his business unless the aftershocks affected either of his superiors' performances, or there was a repeat performance when they were not under the influence of a brain-altering substance. But what mattered, was that the virus stripped a man down to his raw, human emotions; his basest fears, his deepest regrets – and this one evidently caused a Vulcan to express concern openly for his human captain.

It was the first time he'd ever seen Spock look anything but bored with humanity in general, and that one glimpse was enough to curb his harsh tongue toward the Vulcan for a few days afterward.

It still didn't mean he liked Spock, though.

What Christine saw in him, he'd never be able to figure out.

* * *

He was glad Spock's computerized program for the captain's whatever-they-were-supposed-to-call-it gift exchange was sufficiently detailed to pair up people aboard who would never choose each other in any different circumstances, because he was well aware his Head Nurse was hoping to draw the First Officer's name and if he could read unspoken Vulcan at all, he was quite sure Spock had definitely programmed the computer script for that eventuality to never, ever, _ever_ happen.

Poor Christine would be sadly disappointed, but he really couldn't blame Spock for freaking out around her, in his own logical Vulcan way, because the woman's infatuation was teetering between sweet and slightly disturbing. After the Psi2000 incident, she was professional enough to never say or do anything which would be inappropriate or even uncomfortable by Vulcan standards; but the damage had been done, and Spock was more skittish around Sickbay for months afterwards than a cat in a roomful of rocking-chairs. The whole thing was just awkward, and he could only hope that time would smooth over the discomfort and they could go back to being amicable Science colleagues again. He was just glad Spock had no doubt programmed the computer to definitely not match Christine up with the First Officer.

He was _not_ glad, that apparently the blasted Vulcan's beloved computer program decided the least likely person to give Spock a gift would be _him_.

" ** _What?_** " his dismal wail had echoed across Sickbay, seriously disturbing his medical staff, four of whom poked their heads into his office to ascertain the status of his volatile sanity.

Christine was very disappointed, but soon found great pleasure in informing him of all the things she had thought of he could get Spock for Christmas (which, again, a Vulcan didn’t celebrate, a fact to which she was blithely blind), half of which were pretty weird coming from him and the other half he had no idea what they even were, Vulcan somethings-or-other that she'd been _researching_ apparently.

Oh _heck_ no, he was _not_ getting the First Officer singing fire-stones from the canyons at the base of Mount Seleya, meditation-enhancing properties or whatever Vulcan mystic mumbo-jumbo they were reputed to possess or no.

 _Not_ happening. Way too personal.

He briefly contemplated introducing a virus into Spock's computer program, forcing him to repeal it and thus start the exchange over, but decided against it mainly because it would too easily be traced to his computer terminal and/or programming signature in whatever lab he used. He would just have to act as if nothing was wrong; grin and bear it or die in the process.

The hobgoblin was _so_ getting the tackiest present he could find at the next tourist trap they came across before the holidays began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) While McCoy's history pre-The Man Trap is debatable by canon standards, it is a canonical fact that he succeeded the Mark Piper we see in Where No Man Has Gone Before. There's a fanon theory out there that McCoy knew Kirk prior to the five-year mission, but for sake of my story I'm going with the theory that he'd never met Kirk before.  
> (2) According to TOS canon, Spock was at first in the series seen as a Lieutenant-Commander by the braid on his sleeves, at some point a bit later in the series receiving a full Commander's status and the stripes to go with it.  
> (3) Because McCoy found out about Tarsus IV in the episode Conscience of the King, I tend to think the issue was one of two things: either, it didn't damage Kirk's psyche as much as one would think (unlikely, in my opinion), or else the incident was classified by Starfleet even from a ship's Chief Medical Officer, to protect the identity of the people involved. You don't just overlook something like that if you're responsible for the health of a ship's captain, and so I tend to think the incident was classified and indications of any type of ptsd, etc., were minimal or well-hidden.  
> (4) One of my favorite moments in TOS canon you can see in The Naked Time.


	4. Chapter Three

**_Chapter Three_ **

Chanya Lin had made it through Starfleet Academy like most of the good, solid cadets of the day – through more hard work and effort than particular skill. Small and petite all her life, she failed the physical requirements for Security and thus was moved to the Maintenance portion of the Operations track at the Academy. Though having an exceptional aptitude for ancient history, she remained on that track until her commencement and assignment to the _Gallant_ for six months, after which she was transferred to the _Enterprise_ as part of the core maintenance and janitorial staff.

Maintenance staff aboard a starship was necessary; but it was one of the least enjoyable jobs aboard, and one that few people liked. Lin rather enjoyed her work, however, for she was able to learn about the inner workings of a starship and at the same time got to meet all kinds of people she would not have met had she been buried in the engine rooms under the semi-paranoid eye of the rumored-to-be eccentric Montgomery Scott. And, as an expert in ancient civilization, she was assigned to more landing parties than many Maintenance personnel were, for Kirk had made it a priority upon assuming captaincy to know his crew and their hidden talents, to use accordingly when he needed certain specialties.

Most people, however, were not as courteous as Kirk regarding the lowest of the lower decks; and however smart you were, a janitor aboard ship was still nothing more than a janitor to most people. Lin was accustomed to being picked on, growing up in a large family and being the smallest of seven children, the smallest and quietest in each school class, but the condescension – or rather, the simple lack of courtesy – which she encountered occasionally on board ship grated on her nerves, understandably. While blatant rudeness was a rare thing on this ship, smaller infractions were fairly commonplace, as they would be in any work environment where hundreds of people were in close proximity for years on end.

She grew to sincerely hate the attitude of a few outdated crewmen aboard this ship – and every other, for there were always a few who managed to slip through the ranks with an outdated outlook – that clean-up was indeed a job for a woman, and who viewed the female personnel as no more than glorified maids and secretaries.

Janice Rand had made it quite clear to the last man who had given her that kind of trash-talk and attempted to fetishize the job that it was just that, trash (and upon taking the whimpering report in Sickbay, Kirk had reportedly told the young man that she’d been unduly lenient, and if he ever thought it acceptable to keep his hands on a crewman when told to remove them then he’d be bodily removed from the ship next time), but then Rand was the captain's yeoman and as such could get away with murder where a mere Maintenance crewman could not.

As a result, Lin distrusted most of the officers aboard, but the males especially as they seemed to be the worst of the lot. Even if they had no direct or provable sexism toward the lowest Ops personnel, there were still the snide remarks about the utility jumpsuits instead of the mini-skirts, deliberate oil spills with a request to clean it up while they watched, or a dozen other things that made daily work more annoying than it needed to be. As a result, she had no problem proving to her commanding officers and peers that she needed no help from anyone to do her job, and was perhaps a little too enthusiastic about the fact, she would be the first to admit. She was never insubordinate, but neither was she going to take flak off anyone who thought female maintenance crew were in their place, where they belonged, because they couldn't contribute much of value anywhere else.

Captain Kirk, however, was never that way. The man had a reputation of being a ladies’ man, supposedly, but she had never seen him give more than a slightly flirtatious glance to anyone; or rather, to nearly _everyone_ , he passed. It was more a part of his personality than any specific attention, and only a lovestruck idiot yeoman would think otherwise. (Looking at you, Janice.)

She had seen him from a distance many times as he walked the halls of his ship, lower and upper decks alike, stopping to greet crewmen and asking them how their days were going, what they were doing and why, were they happy in their work and if not could he do anything to make them so. While she had not yet met the captain personally on one of his famous shipwalks, she knew he was courteous of his crew and knew each of them by name, no matter how insignificant they were in the grand scheme of the ship. "There are no small jobs and no small people in the world," was the creed by which the captain of the _Enterprise_ lived, and as far as she could see the attitude was genuine enough, though it could be just an act for sake of the Lower Decks.

Only time would tell.

Lin was pleasantly surprised to hear her name over the ship's intra-comm, one morning about a month before the Winter Holiday season began, asking her to report for landing party duty. It was a rare treat, and one she meant to enjoy, especially as Maintenance was scheduled to do a deep sanitation of the Bio-Medical labs at Doctor McCoy’s insistence that day. They were in orbit around a deserted moon colony of Alphasia, and in the absence of anything pressing or a crisis aboard Kirk had given in to the science departments' pleading to be allowed to explore and research the ruins. Naturally he insisted upon going himself, much to Dr. McCoy's dismay and the rest of the crew's amusement.

She would have enjoyed it a whole lot more had the primary pattern buffers not shorted out after their transport, making the transporter inoperative for twelve hours, and had they been better prepared to spend the night amongst the ruins of an ancient civilization on this deserted moon. The archaeologist in her loved the opportunity to explore, when Kirk's grim pronouncement about their being stranded was made public, but the practical woman in her grumbled about the low probability of their stay being comfortable, armed as they were with only three phasers, two tricorders, the archaeological sample cases she was carrying, and the standard emergency equipment pack strapped to the captain's back (courtesy of Dr. McCoy, who had ranted about the dangers of recreational exploring until the captain had finally taken the pack just to shut the physician up).

And the temperature was well into the mid-thirties Celsius, and rising.

"Well, we might as well try to find a place to set up camp," Kirk sighed, after replacing his communicator in its holster following Scott's dire pronouncement. "At least there's nothing toxic in the plant life here that we know of, what there is of it; and no wild animals or any other carnivorous species to worry about."

"The temperature of this area of the planet should remain well within tolerable human parameters for the present, dropping to an uncomfortably low range during the night hours, as is common with most desert terrain," the First Officer reported, tricorder whirring.

“Your idea of _tolerable human parameters_ is, I think, different from most of ours, Mr. Spock,” Kirk replied, but in a tone of amusement.

"While you will likely be in some discomfort, provided we find a water source within two hours, there should be no immediate danger due to the heat, sir. Though sensors aboard did indicate periodic dust storms at intervals throughout the evenings due to elevated wind speed; I would suggest we find a more sheltered area of the ruins to utilize as a base, Captain."

"Right, then. L formation, fall out. Ensign," and this last was spoken to Lin; she snapped to attention as the captain's gaze fell on her. He was already mopping his forehead, sweating profusely in the heat as all of them were. "You're the historical expert in this group; in this type of semi-nomadic civilization, where would the most sheltered areas of the village be?"

Pleased that he had asked her instead of the Xenosocietal lieutenant he'd asked to accompany them, she thought for a moment. "Probably at the heart of the village, Captain; most likely there was a type of longhouse, a large shelter with a closed roof and sturdy enough walls to stand against a wind or sand storm. Given that this dust basin is largely still intact, that would be the most sturdy structure left of the village buildings."

"Right then. Watch it climbing down into the basin," Kirk directed briskly, peering over the steep incline with wariness. "We can't beam down a medikit and we only have basic supplies in this pack, so no injuries due to stupidity, is that clear?"

A chorus of affirmatives followed the captain and his stubborn Security guard as they descended first. Garrovick refused to let the captain go in front, much to Kirk's irritation and the rest of the landing party's amusement, but Kirk scrambled down after his men with all the excitement of a child going exploring – or maybe just of one thrilled at the idea of finding shelter from the bone-melting heat. Lieutenant Martin sighed and followed with their second Security officer, O'Neill, while Lin and Spock brought up the rear.

A muttered curse from below them told her that Martin had carelessly dislodged a shower of pebbles and dust on the unsuspecting duo further down.

She rolled her eyes at the man's disregard and picked her way over a large boulder, while trying to breathe shallowly in the sweltering heat. Slipping for a moment as the weight of the carrying-cases threw her balance off, she scrambled for a handhold as her boots skidded on loose sand.

A blue-sleeved hand shot out to steady her. Finally regaining her balance, she hastily shook off the Vulcan's stiff grip. "Thank you," she said, just a shade brusquely; even irritated, she was not about to be rude to her First Officer. Especially with the captain within earshot; even the greenest cadet knew that was a _royally_ bad idea.

The Vulcan only raised an eyebrow, whatever that meant. She had turned to continue picking a path down the basin's edge, when the cool voice floated over to her. "Ensign, your balance will remain compromised for the duration in which you carry the sample cases; it would be more logical to transfer the burden to me, as my sense of equilibrium is less compromised and my internal temperature far more accustomed to such a heat index."

If that was his way of saying _you're not cutting it, Ensign_ , then he could do with a bit more Vulcan subtlety. She didn't quite roll her eyes, mostly because the climb down was making it hard enough to expend energy in catching her breath, much less indicating her annoyance.

"I can manage, Commander, thank you," she responded curtly, instead making her way down the slope toward the captain and Garrovick, who had completed the descent and were waiting in a settling cloud of sand and dust.

"Ensign," that irritatingly calm voice followed her as she dislodged a smallish boulder, "the additional weight is unnecessary, when one of us is able to relieve you of the added burden."

Fuming, she skidded across a patch of loose sand and shot a look over her shoulder. "I'm just as capable as any of you to carry it, Mr. Spock, _thanks_ ," she replied through clenched teeth, rolling her eyes toward the auburn sky overhead.

She could fairly hear the eyebrows moving. "It is not a question of comparative capability, Ensign, but as you wish."

So perfectly calm and polite and condescending and _annoying_ , wasn't he.

She didn't realize until a moment later that they'd been close enough to the bottom of the basin that the captain had heard the whole exchange; only realized it when he gave her a look that basically said _chill the heck out, kid_ , which only made her feel like a cadet having just been reprimanded in front of a whole class when in reality Kirk hadn't said a word.

They crawled about the ruins, making their way toward the center of the massive village, for the better part of two hours, at the end of which they were all (except Spock of course) deathly hot, and beginning to show signs of dehydration despite the saline shots McCoy had administered before they beamed down. They were also thoroughly cranky, in the case of the humans.

"Ughh," Martin moaned, mopping his forehead with one damp blue sleeve. They were trudging onward at this point toward the looming structure of the central longhouse, the sun's rays beating down on them and sending scorch-ripples wavering up from the ground. "It's hot enough to melt brick, it is."

The Captain sent him a tolerant look, face flushed with the beginnings of sunburn and perspiring profusely from the heat. "You could do something productive, like using that tricorder to scan for water instead of complaining about the heat index?" the man ventured mildly, not a real censure but more a suggestion.

Martin flushed and nodded hastily before he pulled out the instrument and began moving in a slow circle with it.

"O'Neill, Garrovick, go with him; the rest of us will stick together to find shelter for the night. Report if you find a water source, and be sure to test it. It doesn’t look like McCoy put hydro-neutralizer tablets in this pack, so we’re out of luck if it’s not drinkable."

The young men saluted quickly and scurried off after the wandering scientist, while the remaining three continued on toward the center of the village among the rubble and ruin of stone walls and dust-strewn shelters.

Lin was so preoccupied with gazing awestruck at the magnificent carvings she could see half-hidden by sand and age in some of the stonework, that she didn't immediately realize the captain was no longer in front of her until she heard a quiet, almost inaudible "Jim, sit down," from behind her.

Turning, she saw Kirk lean for a moment against a low stone wall before sitting heavily on the smooth edge, bowed slightly forward under the weight of the emergency pack. The captain raked one sleeve across his increasingly-scarlet face and shook his head ruefully up at his First. "It's so awfully _hot_." He exhaled heavily. "Don't ever ask me to visit Vulcan with you during the arid season, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan's lips twitched. " _Which_ arid season, Captain?"

Kirk chuckled, and slowly eased the emergency pack off his shoulders with a grunt of relief. "Dunno what Bones packed in here, but it feels like everything but the warp core," he muttered, thumping the pack vigorously.

"For your sake, I would hope human sunburn medication, for one," was the serene observation.

The captain glared. "One more crack like that and you'll be carrying this thing yourself, mister."

"I was about to offer the same, Captain."

Lin watched, somewhat embarrassed, as the Vulcan calmly lifted the emergency pack and slung it easily over one shoulder, looking down at the slightly panting human with something she couldn't quite identify.

Kirk sighed, rubbed both hands gingerly over his damp-streaked face. "Thanks, Spock," she heard him murmur, before she turned quickly to examining the stone carvings before her, so that they would not know she'd been watching and eavesdropping.

They continued on, and had just reached the shade of the still-standing longhouse when an excited security duo and Lieutenant Martin finally returned, to say they'd located a sort of hot spring under one of the public houses on the outskirts of the village. The water was laced with too many minerals to taste pleasant, but none of the minerals were harmful to human life in reasonable quantities. It would do.

Lin was not happy (and, judging from the aborted protest which Kirk silenced with a single look, neither was Spock) when the captain informed her that the two of them would be going to retrieve drinking water with the collapsible container in the emergency kit.

"I'll go, Captain," Garrovick had offered quickly, seeing the man's sunburned face.

"You just did, Mr. Garrovick," Kirk replied, smiling reassuringly. "This is a society of equality, gentlemen; you stay here and let Ensign Lin and I take this trip. Spock, see if you can contact the ship and hurry Scotty along a little, will you? I'd like to shave some of those remaining…" He looked up at the Vulcan expectantly.

"Nine hours, fourteen-point-five minutes," Spock supplied.

"…Nine hours off, as it'll get pretty cold here tonight."

The cooler-blooded first officer was only too happy to do so, and ten minutes later found Lin following her captain across the sands toward the hot spring the men had pointed out.

As usual, Captain Kirk got straight to the point with all the subtlety of a sanitation bucket to the head. "Ensign, I wish to speak with you regarding your attitude toward several of the crew."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Oh, you're not insubordinate; I'm not accusing you of something that serious. But you could stand to be a little less defensive with the crewmen of your acquaintance." Kirk slid his gaze sideways, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye. "An offer of help is rarely meant as an insult to your capabilities, Ensign. Some of us simply like to be helpful, and offer assistance when we can."

Half of her knew had she rolled her eyes at anyone but Mr. Spock, Kirk probably would have let it slide. Didn't stop her from being defensive, but it was still adorable. "Sir?"

Kirk sighed, rubbed a hand over his face as they trudged onward. "Ensign, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you be unnecessarily defensive toward a crewman – and it is always a crew _man_ – about what you apparently believe is a personal affront toward yourself or your work. I don't profess to know enough as I should about what goes on below decks, perhaps there is more of a problem down there than I thought or anyone in officer rank knows? And as a biological male I certainly have no right to speak for your biological gender and how you are treated.

"But whatever the cause of your defensiveness, it needs to be dealt with as an officer, by you as an officer – not be taken out on those around you who are offering to help you, not because they believe you to be incompetent, but just because that's the kind of person they are. I'm not just talking about Mr. Spock, either," he added, looking pointedly at her. "If you have hopes of rising in the ranks of Starfleet then you will need to learn that there is no shame in accepting help. It's a poor leader who thinks he is entirely self-sufficient, and an even poorer one who refuses to admit when someone else is more capable than he to perform certain tasks."

Rising in the ranks of Starfleet? From _janitorial duty_? Her incredulity must have shown, for Kirk paused to really look at her. "You don't intend to try to move up, Ensign?"

"I'd never given it much thought, sir. Recycling trash on the _Enterprise_ is still better than being a navigator on some other ship, we used to say at the Academy," she returned with a small grin.

The man beamed; it was ridiculously _cute_ , how proud he was of his precious ship. She couldn't find it in her heart to be irritated with him, even if she felt like she was being dressed-down like a first year cadet.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Ensign; but I'll not beat around the bush with you. I don't want a crewman aboard my ship who has no ambition, no dream for his future. I believe there are no small people in my crew; but I expect my crew to believe the same. If working below decks and this condescension toward janitorial personnel has caused this attitude in you, and if you really dislike it that much? Then I expect you to do something to change it. The Enterprise is an equal-opportunity ship, that much I can promise you, and if you believe it is otherwise then I expect you to break every door down aboard until I know _why_.”

Lin blinked, processing this, as they neared the hot spring. A low bubbling sound filtered through the sand-thick air, promising the welcome relief of water in the baked heat. She unshouldered the water container as they approached.

"In other words, Ensign," the captain said, as she lowered the container into the edge of the warm pool, "if you don't love what you do, then either learn to love it, or learn something new. But in the meantime," he added, completely ignoring her wobbly balance as she struggled furiously to straighten up, adjusting her weight under the heavy container, "lose that defensive attitude toward anyone who wants to help you? Give some of us the benefit of the doubt, first."

He could easily have given her an official warning, or even a reprimand. Another captain might have.

Another might also have helped her with the stupid water container, but he was making a stupid point and standing there with his stupid arms folded and a stupid smile on his stupid face, watching her make a _stupid fool of herself_.

Point taken.

"Aye, sir.”

"Good. And now, Ensign," the captain turned, all traces of sternness vanished under his most charming smile, "are you going to let me take that container, which probably is over half of your entire body weight, or are you going to let me watch you kill yourself getting it back to camp probably only half full by the time you arrive?"

She was well aware if she refused then he would indeed let her carry it the whole way, even if it took her twenty times as long to return as it had taken to reach the spring. Warily, she extended one of the flexible handles. Kirk smiled and took it, accepting half the weight of the ten-gallon container.

"You're learning, Ensign," the man said with a smile as they began to walk back to camp. "And that's all I ask."

* * *

Their camp in the ruins of the ancient city was less than pleasant for most of the landing party, though frankly she thought it was wonderful, being so close to the remains of such a magnificent but extinct race and the mechanical wonders they had produced even with an entire lack of technology before some cataclysm, no one knew what, had wiped them out. She wandered the ruins until the two suns disappeared behind Alphasia, upon which Kirk had ordered they all converge back on their camp, which was lit by the emergency kit's single lantern – which in turn did nothing to raise the temperature of the rapidly cooling room. She returned to find the others (sans Mr. Spock, naturally, who was mechanically consuming his meal in perfect silence) good-naturedly grousing about how awful McCoy's protein bars were, even worse with the awful mineral-laced water, and why on earth hadn't the CMO packed them something actually _edible_.

"Here," O'Neill called as she returned, and he tossed her one of the foil-wrapped bars. "And good luck with it."

Mr. Spock finished his and vanished without a word into the shadows, taking with him the water container and emergency kit; Kirk never turned a hair and so she assumed he either was fine with it or just simply was too cold to care.

Her jaw dropped, along with everyone else's in the group, when the Vulcan returned fifteen minutes later with what looked suspiciously like hot _coffee_.

The captain's dumbfounded look was worth being stranded on the planet.

"Where in the _galaxy_ , Spock?" the man breathed, cradling the small cup in cold hands with the look of a man completely in love.

They were all treated to The Eyebrow. "I have been stranded on landing parties with you before now, Captain," was the pointed rejoinder. "I have learned that it is more important for the sake of all concerned to remember a sample of this particular Terran beverage than it is to bring along my tricorder."

Garrovick choked on his water, moving away from the lantern with a hacking cough, and Lieutenant Martin just sat staring horrified at his superior actually making what amounted to a Vulcan joke, even as the captain only looked mildly affronted over the rim of the cup.

She had no idea what to think; this was a side of both her commanding officers she'd never seen before.

"I tested phaser setting one upon the rocks outside this building while heating the water, Captain," the Vulcan continued, passing the other four cups out and then setting the small collapsible thermal container next to the captain, who eyed it adoringly. "The compositions of the walls of this building are built of the same material, and my tricorder registered no noxious fumes or otherwise harmful elements that might be produced by heating them; we are quite safe in doing so."

"Well thank goodness," Martin exclaimed, and promptly began blasting the walls around them with his phaser. A pleasant glow began to rise from the stone as the phaser beams faded, and warmth followed thereafter, banishing the chill of a desert night which had begun to creep through the sand and stone into their very bones.

In that way, with the walls glowing the color of fiery sand and a warm drink and conversation to ward off the wail of the desert winds whistling through the gaps in the rubble around them, the night actually passed pleasantly. At one point Kirk asked her to elaborate on the type of civilization this ruin would have been, sternly informing Lieutenant Martin that all knowledge was useful to an intelligent mind when the man acted less than interested. Though slightly intimidated by the fact that she was basically asked to teach something to the captain and first officer of the Federation's flagship, she found herself enjoying the time and feeling capable of answering the questions put to her.

The chirp of Mr. Spock's communicator, and Scott's cheery voice four hours ahead of schedule, was magnificently-timed, as the coffee (Spock had a second batch somewhere on his person, no one knew where – Lin suspected it was hidden in that crazy tricked-out tricorder of his) had just run out, leaving their dauntless captain staring mournfully at the empty container.

After that day, she saw little enough of any of those with whom she'd gone on landing party duty, other than one time when she was cleaning an oil spill in a Jefferies tube and the captain came crawling frantically through from the opposite end as if the devil himself were after him, shooting her an apologetic smile as he cut left at the access juncture without a word of explanation (and if McCoy was heard tracking him down for a monthly check-up, fifteen minutes later, she was most definitely not going to tell a soul).

Lin almost didn't participate in the captain's holiday gift-exchange, simply because knowing the massive amount of cleanup and system malfunctions that would happen during the ship-wide holiday celebrations kind of soured her on the whole season and all it entailed, but in the end she thought better of it; the idea behind it, unifying the crew, was a worthy enough venture, and she had promised the man she would attempt to better herself in the new year.

She nearly went to Mr. Spock himself about his computer program, however, because she very much wanted to know how, out of four hundred thirty-two people aboard, she was so unlucky as to land the name _Captain James Tiberius Kirk_ as her recipient.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussions of one of the cringiest episodes, The Enemy Within, and the attempted sexual assault the episode completely disregarded. I never liked Janice Rand's character, but she really deserved better.

**_Chapter Four_ **

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura came on board during the major personnel shuffle which occurred after the return of the _Enterprise_ to Earth following her shakedown cruise. She had heard plenty of rumors about Captain James T. Kirk, many of which were less than flattering, at least those originating with the females of her acquaintance. Kirk was reported to 'have a woman in every Starbase,' and those were the more mild of the stories that surfaced among Starfleeters and the occasional tabloid. While this wasn’t exactly atypical for high-ranking officers, especially those the ‘Fleet liked to shove in the limelight, it didn’t bode well for such a long voyage in deep space.

She came aboard well-prepared to fend off any advances she might receive, being one of the very few ranking officers who identified as female at the time (she had never heard anything about Kirk fraternizing too far below his station, though that was no indication one way or the other as the man was smart enough to be discreet, given that the 'Fleet frowned upon relationships between those on the same ship anyway). Then she met Captain James Tiberius Kirk and his melting smile, and found herself realizing she just might not _mind_ attention from the man.

And he gave her absolutely none. Even the young Asian botanist who eventually transferred to regular Bridge duty looked at her legs in that short uniform more than their supposed Don Juan of a captain.

For many weeks, she couldn't decide whether to be relieved, disappointed, or insulted.

Captain Kirk, she soon found, was nothing less than a strict gentleman – almost ridiculously and old-fashionedly so – with his crew, male and female and all other genders alike. She never once caught him doing more than looking at anyone, period, and (what was important) those times were never at a member of his crew – or any other captain's crew, which was even more vital. That didn't meant that he didn't look, but it did mean he definitely wasn't doing it where anyone in his immediate command staff could see.

Because she was definitely watching.

Quite frankly, it surprised her that his attentions only were evident with visiting ambassadors, other non-Starfleet personnel, or else the odd entity on some planet they visited, and only then if the other party seemed equally enthusiastic _and_ if there was no pressing business or vital diplomatic relation at stake. Those occasions were few and far between, and though she of course did not know the captain's shore leave habits, she found herself realizing that the rumors surrounding the mystique of Captain Kirk were highly exaggerated. The man could turn his charisma on and off like an electrical circuit, that was not in question; but he never even gave indication of something more serious than a flirtation with anyone remotely connected with official Starfleet business. Obviously, the man was either more discreet than it was humanly possible to be, or smart enough to know such things were a very bad idea on board one’s own ship.

And honestly, any man whose favored pastime aboard ship was talking temporal physics over a chessboard with the universe's most logical species really couldn't be _that_ much of a skirt-chaser as he was reported. With her, Kirk was always polite, friendly, treating her like a sister off-duty and an officer on, and in a very short time Nyota Uhura had succumbed with nearly everyone else aboard. She soon fell completely under the irresistible glow of Kirkian charm.

That was why, when after the incidents surrounding the transporter malfunction at Alpha 177 the rumors began to spread about Kirk and his young yeoman, Janice Rand, she knew immediately how false they were. (1)

For one thing, Janice Rand was a smart, determined, open-minded young woman who knew what she wanted and was audacious enough to accomplish it. She was also, like many starry-eyed young 'Fleet personnel of her day, completely infatuated with the miniature legend that was developing under the name (and quite attractive face and body, no one could deny that) of Captain James T. Kirk. Very few beings, and even fewer women, did not notice the captain; and very few men couldn't help but notice Janice Rand. The difference in their characters lay in how they acted upon their natural impulses.

She had never seen Kirk do more than glance at the girl, despite what she well recognized were obvious attempts to induce him to do so. The idea that he, as the current circulating rumors now said, would force his attentions upon Rand had three large problems. One, she had never seen any indications that he was remotely interested (and one of the many languages she was expert in interpreting was that of _body_ language) in doing more than just looking. Two, if he were to engage in a liaison with one of his crew, he was smart enough to not do so blatantly, between several ranks and with someone so obviously under his direct control, which could get him court-martialed if something went wrong or he were accused of a _quid pro quo_.

And three, while she would never discount anyone’s accusations without investigating them, she highly doubted Kirk would ever force himself upon a woman. Besides the fact that Uhura could judge character as well as she could translate Standard into twelve separate languages without the aid of a universal translator, she knew one irrefutable fact of humanity – namely, anyone as attractive as the captain didn't _need_ to force himself upon someone. There were over a hundred women (and several dozen men) aboard who would have gladly accepted the attention if he offered it; taking it unwillingly from someone was simply _unnecessary_ , notwithstanding out of character.

She was slightly surprised, but actually relieved, when she was summoned from a quick lunch with Montgomery Scott to meet with the captain in Briefing Room Three soon after the incident in question. Poor Scotty looked rather crestfallen when she left him alone with his sandwich and technical journals, but she would make it up to him later.

Surprised, because she was not truly a part of the command chain and as such was rarely a part of briefings or official meetings among the command staff. Obviously, this was unofficial, she realized when she entered to find the captain sitting alone, reading from a data-padd. And she was relieved, because it gave her the opportunity to speak with him about the rumors, and their consequences, without making it sound as if she were being a busybody or investigating a matter which had according to ship’s records already been put to rest.

"Lieutenant," Kirk spoke, glancing up with a brief smile. "I apologize for disturbing your lunch; had I been informed you were occupied when I asked the Bridge to comm you I would have told them to wait."

"It's all right, Captain," she responded, sliding easily into place across from him. "I believe Mr. Scott was more interested in the _Galactic Scientific Journal_ 's latest developments in tachyon acceleration than he was in our conversation, anyway."

The captain chuckled. But after turning off the padd, he clasped his hands upon the table and turned a more serious face toward her. "Lieutenant, I asked you here for two reasons; one, as communications officer aboard this ship you are vital to analyzing crew morale, almost more so than Dr. McCoy and the medical staff."

That much was true; no one had a closer eye and finger on the pulse of the ship than she did, monitoring every transmission that was made, listening and deducing and learning.

"Secondly," and here the man sighed, and in an uncharacteristically vulnerable gesture rubbed his forehead with one hand, "as the ranking female officer aboard this ship, you are in a way responsible for the morale, safety and conduct of the female crew; you are their role model, their leader, and I rely upon you to keep an eye on them, so to speak, where I cannot. To make certain there is no gender-bigotry going on in the ranks, and so on. The female crew will talk to you when they will not to me or to Dr. McCoy, and I hope you know that I rely upon that immensely."

She nodded in perfect understanding of the situation, though not really knowing exactly where this was leading. "Aye, sir. I do try, Captain."

"And you do far more than that," was the fervent reply. "But…as such, I am going to have to ask you something that is extremely uncomfortable for me."

The man _looked_ highly uncomfortable, she had seen and deduced that from the inception of their conversation. And, if the color rising into his face were any indication, she had an idea of what was coming.

"Lieutenant, I need to know what the crew is saying regarding…regarding myself and Yeoman Rand." After an initial hesitation, the captain continued with determination, eyes steely. "Don't spare my feelings or hers, if you please; I need to know, in an official capacity, what effect the incidents of that transporter malfunction are having on my crew."

Now it was her turn to be uncomfortable, for it had been a dreadful incident in which they both were unfortunately innocent, and it made her ill to think of repeating such things.

"Lieutenant," Kirk's voice softened, seeing her discomfort. "I am in all probability going to have to transfer Yeoman Rand, due to incidents completely unrelated to this transporter malfunction. I need to know how bad the rumor mill is, so that I can decide how to go about that without it looking like she’s being accused of something of which she’s completely innocent, and without undue embarrassment."

"She wasn’t the only one innocent in the malfunction, sir, if the reports were accurate," she ventured quietly. Having one’s moral willpower completely taken away constituted a very different form of non-consent, certainly, but she would not discount a man’s trauma at the expense of a woman’s.

Kirk looked her square in the eye. "My personal comfort is of no consequence, Lieutenant. The reputations of Starfleet, this ship, and that innocent young woman are."

"You do understand that most of us know the blame doesn’t lie with you, don't you sir?"

He blinked curiously. "Most of the crew, yourself included I dare say, Lieutenant, don't even know the particulars. How could you possibly know that?"

She in turn rather glared at him. "Sir. You said yourself that I am responsible for the females aboard this ship. Do you really think I didn't do some investigating as soon as the rumors started?"

Kirk looked surprised, hands twitching, but only for a brief moment, after which he smiled and nodded. "Of course you did."

"If you really had touched her it wouldn't have been your First Officer contacting Starfleet about a Court Martial, it would have been _me_ ," she retorted, raising both eyebrows in emphasis. "I've heard about the consequences of this kind of thing happening on other ships, sir. Not on my watch."

"Nor on mine, Lieutenant," was the intense, clipped rejoinder.

"Of course not, sir. It’s unfortunate, the circumstances," she continued, delicately. “But there are two victims here. Granted, Yeoman Rand is certainly the primary one, but it would not be justice to dismiss you either, sir.”

"I am…pleased, really, that you believed the reports," the man sighed, looking down at his hands. "Many people wouldn't. I have not been as careful as I should, apparently."

"Sir, I believe you’re overthinking this," she replied gently. "The rumors are dying down, mainly due to Sulu's and my influence. No one with an ounce of brains really believes something more dramatic happened than a transporter malfunction, which you were obviously not responsible for. Things happen aboard starships, sir, on missions with crewmen under the influence of things administered against their wills. This is no different, it’s just unfortunately more personal."

"Well, that's good, I suppose. I – wait a minute, _Sulu's_ and your influence?"

"You can't possibly not be aware that he's the central clearing house for most of ship's gossip…" she began, watching as blank surprise registered in those distractingly bright hazel eyes.

Kirk gave a small noise of pain, rubbing his forehead again, and ended by pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need to know this ship better," he sighed.

"Sir, you've only been in command for seven months."

"That's no excuse for not knowing the source and key players in a ship's grapevine. But _kaiidth_ ," and she tried not to show her surprise as the Vulcan adage fell from the man's lips as easily as Standard did. "I can't change that now, but tell me – how, exactly, are the two of you handling this?"

"Sulu clears and destroys a lot of the gossip as it circulates, always has," she reported calmly. "If someone wants an accurate story, they go to him, and he gives them what they need to know and squashes what they don't and what's exaggerated. The biggest mouths aboard know better than to come up against him in a verbal war, and most of the others know better than to trust anything that doesn't come straight from the top: namely, your helmsman, sir. Everyone knows the alpha shift crew usually has the most accurate stories aboard."

Kirk blinked, processing this.

"The fact that the worst of the lot seem to get cut up a bit during his fencing tutorials seems to help," she added, smirking.

The laugh which broke the captain's silence seemed slightly high-pitched. "And you…knew this the whole time, and haven't informed me?"

"I was unaware you considered it necessary, sir; I apologize for that. I only brought things which we thought needed attention to Mr. Spock, not knowing you would wish to become involved with ship's gossip."

"So Spock is in on this… _web of knowledge_ too? What on earth for?"

"Captain, do you have any idea how scary that First Officer of yours can be when he wants to? Particularly when the reputation of his captain is at stake?"

"Point taken," the man chuckled, though it sounded more like a dismayed whimper. "So you're saying…there were rumors, though."

"There were," she agreed reluctantly, though firmly, for she knew the man wanted and deserved the truth. "Some of them were…somewhat lurid."

The captain winced, and pinched the bridge of his nose again before reaching for his lukewarm coffee cup. "And now, at this moment – what is circulating?"

"Besides the documented threats of three months' straight gamma shift duty courtesy of your First Officer, if any idiot opens his mouth regarding something he knows nothing about again?"

Kirk choked on his coffee. "Y…es, besides that," he managed at last.

"Nothing that I believe is serious enough to filter through back to Starfleet Command, Captain," she finally decided upon saying. "I would have told you by now, if that were the case. It’s been a month, and the crew finds other things to talk about. I’ve spoken with Rand, and she seems to not be having any issues with anyone in the lower decks. Whether that’s accurate, I can’t say."

Relief stood out clearly on the captain’s worried features, and he relaxed into his chair. "Then let me ask you this: if I do transfer Yeoman Rand, do you believe that will only aid the spread of the rumors? I do not want her reputation damaged over an incident in which she was a victim, nothing more. If I have to make a full disclosure to her new posting regarding the circumstances of this, I will do so."

She certainly respected the willingness of a man who would do such a thing when most captains would sweep it under the rug without a second thought.

She was silent for a moment, however, wondering how to bring it up tactfully and without slandering a young woman who, while having made a few poor judgment calls in the past in this area, was entirely innocent on this unfortunate occasion.

"Lieutenant?"

"Permission to speak freely, Captain, and confidentially?"

"I can't promise entire confidentiality due to the content, but this is for all intents and purposes off the record, Lieutenant." Kirk leaned forward, attention fixed upon her. "Please proceed."

"Sir, if you will take this as an outside observation from a ranking officer – your yeoman has something of a reputation among the lower ranks as being…a bit too encouraging of male attention," she phrased as delicately as she could. “She enjoys her privilege as your yeoman, and has used it probably a little too freely.”

The man looked utterly dumbfounded, clearly out of his depth with the melodrama of young love.

"Most of the crew thinks she encouraged you and then changed her mind when you finally accepted," she clarified, cringing internally as the horror flitted swiftly across the captain's face. "It's she whose reputation is mainly being talked about, not yours, sir. That doesn’t make it right, but that is what is happening."

"That is completely unacceptable, Lieutenant. I will not have sexism happening on my ship."

"I entirely agree, sir, but we both know when something like this happens, the woman is never the one who comes out looking better.”

“She was entirely innocent in what happened to her.”

“Captain, in this instance she certainly was; but unfortunately she hasn't banked up any leniency in this particular area prior to this incident, in fact she's quite a reputation to the opposite below decks. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that! But it hasn’t helped, sir."

"Her private life should have no bearing upon this incident, Lieutenant. I expected more from you." The tone was stern, and she bristled under it.

"I _agree_ , sir; however, you were asking me what the crew was saying. I am simply _answering_ your inquiry. Captain, you were not the only man whom Janice Rand has tried to get to notice her," she said, as tactfully as she could. "It's a natural thing for an attractive young woman like she is," she added, "and her private life is certainly her own. But that doesn't change the fact that people aren't really concerned with the Alpha 177 incident so much as they are the common knowledge that something has to be done about her in general. Frankly, Captain, with all respect, I doubt you would have ever done anything to discourage her, and we all knew she was getting far too familiar with you. It bordered on disrespect, sir."

Kirk had taken now to massaging his temples, as if trying to ward off a headache. He looked up at her, venting a sigh of frustration. "In your opinion, Lieutenant, knowing the pulse of the ship as you do – will my keeping her aboard, not transferring her…will that do more harm than good to crew morale?"

"Yes, sir. It will. She's an excellent officer, sir; she just needs to not stay on this ship," she replied with perfect frankness, as that was what he had asked for. “You did say yourself you were thinking of a transfer due to unrelated reasons. I believe you know this already. She deserves a fresh start, sir.”

"I did, but I needed to know it was not my personal feelings making that decision." Kirk stood, and she quickly followed suit. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he continued quietly. "Your job description is far more than that of simply monitoring subspace communications; I am very, very pleased that you realized this without my telling you."

"My pleasure, sir. And Captain," she added, as he preceded her to the door. He turned around, eyebrow raised in question. "Sir, if you need someone to tell her about the transfer when it's finalized…I wouldn't mind doing it for you," she offered slowly, hoping desperately that she hadn't overstepped her bounds in offering.

The usual smile was back on full force, as if the uncomfortable discussion had never happened. "Thank you, Lieutenant, but I believe I have a few rumors to put to rest," the man said simply, and left the room a few feet ahead of her.

* * *

Sulu met her as arranged that night in the gym, where he was teaching her some basic katas in the forms of martial arts he knew, and was pleased to hear that the issues they were dealing with would be taken care of soon.

"It’s really unfortunate. There's just too much drama surrounding that whole mess," he agreed as they warmed up. "The rumor mills were going full force by the time McCoy let me out of Sickbay, once I could feel my fingers again. Give it a few weeks and everyone will forget about it, find something more interesting to talk about."

They did, they did indeed – just as the repercussions from the Psi2000 virus had been eclipsed by the incidents with the transporter malfunction (Sulu had spent four days stamping out the highly-embellished rumor that he had tried to challenge Mr. Spock to a duel with Uhura as the prize) (2), the arrival of Harry Mudd and his three female cohorts drove every coherent thought out of nearly everyone’s minds, and within hours of their arrival no man aboard even thought twice about Janice Rand. (3)

Captain Kirk transferred the yeoman with high recommendations at the next Starbase to a scientific research vessel captained by an old friend, after ascertaining that there were many people on board with whom Rand had been popular with at the Academy; she would have many friends and would not leave the _Enterprise_ under stigma. They spent forty-eight hours at the Starbase, giving the crew time to adjust to new personnel to replace the few they had lost in the last eight months and in giving them a well-needed rest from the hectic schedule they had been keeping. (4)

During one of the quietest stints in orbit around the starbase, while only maintenance was being done to the engines and just one command officer and the communications chief were needed on the Bridge, Uhura remembered to finally register and enter the access code to find out whom she would be getting a gift for the holiday gift exchange.

Perhaps Spock's subconscious mind had a latent sense of human humor, for she drew a name that made her grin evilly and, after beaming down for her turn at shore leave, head for the Starbase's nearest bookstore to see if they had a collectible copy of Dumas's _The Three Musketeers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Enemy Within  
> (2) The Naked Time   
> (3) Mudd's Women  
> (4) Rand's last appearance is in The Balance of Terror. Some of these oneshots overlap in time frames as they work their way toward the holiday party; for example, the next chapter is set behind and beyond this one.


	6. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five_ **

Lieutenant Robert Tomlinson had worked for just a short time under Captain Pike, only four months before the captaincy turnover; not long enough to really get to know Pike and definitely not long enough to have an opinion one way or the other about the turnover of the captaincy.

Having served on other, less well-equipped, starships before landing the enviable job of working in the Tactical division aboard the Federation's flagship, he was quite happy where he was and with what he was doing. He was not a religious man by nature, but had grown up deep in the heart of one of the North American continent’s major cities, and as such loved Christmastime and all that went with it with every fiber of his easygoing soul. His decision to join Starfleet was never regretted; he enjoyed space itself, loved being a part of a greater good, and especially took pleasure in meeting new people or, even better, new species.

The only regrettable thing, however, about serving aboard a starship, was the fact that you really couldn't celebrate the holidays with all the hoopla they were celebrated with back home. With safety and health regulations being what they were, real or even replicated Christmas trees and/or greenery were strictly forbidden, as was the use of candles or any kind of 'live' light. You had to get strict medical permission to hang a sprig of mistletoe anywhere aboard, due to certain species being allergic to it, and if you even dreamt of smuggling a poinsettia aboard from the latest Starbase – well, let's just say it was not a pleasant thing to be visited by a Medical squad headed by a thoroughly irritated Dr. Leonard McCoy.

And let's not get started on what happened when he and Engineer Olsen tried to reprogram one of the mess hall selectors to make gingerbread…Mr. Scott was not a merry man.

But he loved the holiday season regardless, and embraced Christmas and New Year's and any other holiday, Christian or Judeo-Christian or pagan or otherwise, anyone wanted to throw in there with all his heart. Therefore, he was almost childishly ecstatic when the captain's idea about a gift exchange filtered through the gossip chain, followed the next day by Commander Spock's generated computer script and access codes. He was the first person in line at the public terminal in the Engineering section's cross-corridor once the process started, and drew the name and ID holophoto of Ensign Angela Martine.

And he had absolutely no clue who that was.

But she was _very_ cute.

The hunt was on.

* * *

He stalked Angela Martine at a distance (in an entirely healthy, Secret Santa sort of way, of course) for eight days, until he knew enough about her to know she was a pretty easy-going young woman and wouldn't think he was a creeper if he just showed up one day in General Mess and asked to sit with her, followed by an invitation to ship's Movie Night (they were showing some god-awful science fiction film from Earth's early twenty-first century) that next evening.

Whle she didn’t appear to mind a little harmless flirting, and then a little less harmless hand-holding, Martine did, however, evidently draw the line at stealing kisses in the dark, because the woman slapped harder than anybody he'd ever met in his (not boring) life, and had deadly aim to boot. He learnt a valuable lesson about not taking liberties he’d not earned (and so did everyone else within hearing distance, which was fair).

That didn't stop him from first apologizing, and then _asking_ the next time, nor did it stop her from laughing in his face and telling him he had to earn the right, and walking off with a twirl of short skirt he was almost as happy to stare at.

After he stumbled across Montgomery Scott's stash of illegally-obtained Romulan ale secured behind a fake panel in Engineering one evening, he acquired the leverage to blackmail the Scot into assigning Martine under his phaser crew instead of Lieutenant Masters's crew.

Angela was thoroughly unimpressed by the gesture, and said so (he believed the word 'stalker' was used, accompanied by some choice language he’d never dreamt a religious woman would use. And he hadn’t even thought about the fact it would look stalkery, he just wanted the chance to actually have a conversation more than two minutes every month; they worked completely different shifts and were bunked completely across the saucer section, so it would be literally impossible unless he also stalked her eating habits, which was worse? Right? He immediately offered to transfer her back, because he wasn’t a total idiot, but she informed him in a tone that could flash-freeze palladium of what he could do with his control issues, and he needed to find a different hobby or transfer himself instead, she had work to do.

Fair point, even if he hadn’t meant to make such a mess of it.

It took two weeks of relentlessly bringing her coffee and/or donuts in the mornings for him to convince her he wasn't trying to hit on her (much) and that no, he wasn't leering, he was smiling and trying to be friendly, honest. At this point he was just trying to dig himself out of the crater-sized hole he’d dug, he’d be happy with just getting thrown a rope instead of a noose.

On the eleventh day she actually took the coffee instead of throwing it out (or _on_ him, on that one occasion he was stupid enough to look elsewhere than her face when he said hello), and he crowed so loudly in his glee that half the phaser room crew turned to look at him, askance.

On the fourteenth day she finally informed him, after much incessant questioning, that she actually didn't like coffee; she was more of a tea person.

Good thing Sulu still owed him a favor over the carnivorous Tortugan Voracia the botanist had accidentally let loose in the lower decks two weeks ago; not just anyone could take out one of those puppies without the captain or Mr. Spock finding out, thanks very much. The young man was only too glad to hand over a supply of authentic chamomile he was growing in his private stash.

The stunned blink and subsequent smile he got when he presented Angela Martine with a cup of authentic, not-replicated tea the next morning, was well worth burning himself four times in trying to figure out how the heck to prepare the stuff without a tea bag.

Then came that little run-in with the Huraon pirates, and both of them had a whole lot more to think about than using engineering terminology to flirt or fight in front of their colleagues.

He had been stuck on his back under a sparking console, trying his best to ignore the frantic Scottish burr that was bellowing orders from a catwalk far above him, when that entire section of the ship shuddered violently, throwing personnel flying and dislodging several consoles from their places against walls if not secured properly.

The wall-comm was blaring orders in rapid succession, indicating that things were not going all that well and pretty soon the secondary phasers might have to be engaged manually if things didn't improve out there. As he scrambled out from under the console, sending his rolling dolly flying to the next man in line for repair work, blue-suited medical personnel swarmed the room, immediately tending to the injured while another blast rocked the ship from aft to stern. He clutched the nearest railing along with four other engineers, even as the tell-tale screaming whistle sounded far down the corridor – a hull breach, a level two, and the emergency bulkheads would be deploying as soon as the breach could no longer be contained by the emergency forcefields.

Montgomery Scott dashed from the room, bellowing for Tomlinson and a team to follow him, and he had just time to throw a worried-looking (huzzah, worried!) Angela Martine a reassuring glance as he darted out after their fearless leader. Three hundred meters down the corridor, and the shrieking warning of failing emergency forcefields grew louder.

"Go, go, go!" Scott shouted as crewmen flew by them, fleeing the rapidly depressurizing hull breach area. "Move!"

A sudden pounding drew their attention to a cross-corridor, where a young female engineer stood, rapidly punching commands into the nearest wall control panel, which was sparking periodically, smoke filling the small hatchway as crewmen dashed past them out of the danger zone ahead. A bulkhead had been snapped into place beside the young engineer, though it remained a good eight inches off the floor.

Oh, heaven have mercy – there were people in there, Tomlinson could hear voices, frantic ones, and saw a hand pleadingly extend from the small space.

"What is it, lass?" Scott panted, eyes on the straining bulkheads as they prepared to drop into place ten yards behind them.

"Bulkhead malfunction," Lieutenant Shomari, he recognized her now despite the smoke-grimed hair and desperate expression, spoke rapidly, punching another string of commands into the console, which only beeped angrily at her instead of functioning as it should. "Three people trapped in there, one of McCoy's nurses, two of them are our people. Thing slammed down on them before it should have, but not all the way, you can see."

The screech of metal, and the wail of a warning klaxon, and Scott whirled, staring as the emergency breakers snapped out of place, preparing the bulkheads to deploy when necessary to avoid depressurizing the whole deck.

"Out," he shouted over the pandemonium, and the engineering team turned obediently and ran for their lives. Tomlinson shot one look over his shoulder to see Scott furiously pounding overrides into the console, and then he turned back to running beyond the danger zone.

Thirty seconds later, Scott and Shomari and two red blurs, one blue, flew past them just seconds before the bulkheads dropped into place.

"Oh, well doon, lassie," the breathless Scotsman gasped, patting his engineer on the back. Shomari smiled weakly, and hugged the thoroughly frightened nurse who had been tending to one of the injured engineers when the bulkhead had malfunctioned.

 _"Mr. Scott, report!"_ the wall comm blared, and Scott leapt to the panel, motioning his crew to retire back to their stations. The ship's red alert lights had changed moments before to yellow; obviously the threat, whatever it had been, had been neutralized.

"Hull breached, captain, sections 423 and 424. We'll get on repairs soon as –"

The ship lurched sickeningly, and the red alert klaxon resumed. _"Those dirty – return fire, Mr. Sulu!"_ the captain's voice came shouting through the comm, the man having obviously forgotten to take his finger off the switch. _"Spock, can you get a fix on that ship's energy source? Scotty, are you still there?"_

"Lieutenant Shomari, sir; Mr. Scott went back to Engineering," Shomari snapped crisply. "The warp engines just felt wrong all of a sudden, he said."

_"Well I trust his judgment on that, but Lieutenant, there's a serious fire in section 427, according to internal scans. That's far too close to our emergency stores; leave the engines to Mr. Scott and get that fire out, immediately."_

"Aye, sir! Tomlinson, Pordua, Shaw, Turner, with me. You too, Anya, we may need a nurse. Dolton, limp yourself to Sickbay or else get out of the way of the emergency squads. The rest of you get back to Mr. Scott. Move!"

They raced three sections backward, and Tomlinson could feel the heat as soon as they breached the section's temporary seal. Battling the blaze with the extinguishers in addition to the fire suppressant system was simple; rescuing the four people who had keeled over from smoke inhalation, one of whom was stuck half-in, half-out of a Jefferies tube, was not.

And as the ship lurched again, Tomlinson heard it.

The shriek of an emergency bulkhead, the circuitry controlling which had been burned out by the fire.

And there was no time to yell a warning to Turner and Shomari.

He'd never, ever be able to forget those horrible screams.

* * *

It was well into ship's night when he heard someone else enter the Observation Deck (up to now, it had just been him at one end, and the captain and Commander Spock talking quietly at the other), and slowly walk along the privacy cubicles which lined the wall facing the star-lit expanse. The small footsteps stopped outside his, and then a light knock sounded at the door.

He'd had the indicator for privacy on, and the only way he could have been found was by accessing the ship's computer to initiate a scan for his bio-signature – an awful lot of trouble to go to just to locate one measly engineer who was lucky enough to not have _died_ today. He opened the door with reluctance.

Whoever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't Ensign Angela Martine.

"I've been looking all over for you," she said softly, leaning against the door-frame of the cubicle. "You…you didn't come back after your check-in, and no one seemed to know where you were."

"They had more important people to worry about, like poor Shomari, and Turner, and the others who weren't as lucky as I was, Angela," he answered, trying desperately to rid his head of the screams he'd heard this afternoon and failing miserably.

"It's so wrong of me," he heard as he edged closer to the door in an entirely non-sexual need for human contact, just to know that something was still real, still _there_.

Pausing, he looked down at her stricken face when it turned upward toward his. "What is?"

"May our Lord forgive me for the thought, but I'm so glad it wasn't you," she whispered.

He kissed her, and this time he didn't get slapped for his trouble; and for several long minutes they just stood there, holding each other tightly under the stars and wondering at the fragility of human life, the transient nature of their occupations and their careers. At any time, at any place, it could easily be one of them, and they had to constantly live in the shadow of that sobering knowledge.

It was a heavy burden to bear, and while he would never bring it up at so grave a time as this the hope did flutter briefly through his heart that, if life on this starship were truly so potentially short, then they should take every advantage of it they could, not waste time about it.

Movement caught his peripheral eye, and he lifted his head from Angela's sweet-smelling hair for an instant, in time to see that the captain and Commander Spock had finished their talk and were leaving as unobtrusively as they had been conversing. Kirk sent him a somewhat sad, understanding nod, and then followed his First out the door.

Neither he nor Angela realized until a few hours later, after the tears and the talks and the half-promises of comfort, that Kirk had entered a control panel override as he left, to seal the Deck for an hour and give them complete privacy.

Captain James T. Kirk was _amazing_.

* * *

There were no regulations against officers fraternizing with each other, though it was deeply frowned upon by the higher-ups if the rankings were more than a level or two different; the only 'Fleet regulation on the subject that was strictly adhered to was that of mandatory medical clearance to engage in relations with alien species (1). Between humans, only the basic, common-sense health requirements were enforced, along with a warning that in the case of emotional compromise the officers involved would be separated and that if needed, psychological evaluations would be required to prove there was no coercion occurring due to rank or any other difference.

However, as on many starships, it was traditional to have a third party unofficially ‘approve’ of serious relationships before engaging in them; usually either the chief medical officer or the ship's counselor would be involved initially, to prevent said relationship from bleeding over into the officers’ work, compromising their efficiency and so on. It was a rare thing for crewmen to become involved seriously, as most didn’t want to be so tied down out in the void, but it did happen, and the tradition had stuck.

The _Enterprise_ didn't really have a ship's counselor (McCoy had vied for one twice so far, growling something or other about being 'a doctor, not a marriage counselor,' but the captain had deemed it unnecessary, as the physician had a PhD in both Xenobiology and Psychology and they had a brilliant psychiatrist aboard in Helen Noel), and Tomlinson quite frankly was as terrified of Leonard McCoy as half the crew were, and so he therefore decided to approach the captain instead. One evening in Officers' Mess, he gathered his courage up and approached the small table where the man was eating a hurried sandwich between department inspections.

Montgomery Scott, who had been sitting across from the captain, shot him a pointed look as he approached, well knowing what he had in mind. The engineer made his excuses and then vacated the table, leaving Kirk to motion amicably to the empty chair.

Tomlinson dropped into it with a word of thanks, and folded his hands on the table around his lemonade cup.

"All right, Lieutenant, out with it," Kirk said before ten seconds had passed.

"Sir?"

"Tomlinson, you look like you're about to die from nerves," the captain chuckled, as he finished off his sandwich and pulled his water glass closer. "As Mr. Scott would have been staying here had something gone wrong in Engineering you needed to 'fess up over, that means nerves about something else entirely."

He gulped down a swallow of lemonade, almost wishing he'd gone to see McCoy instead. "Well…yes, sir."

Kirk set his glass down and gave him his full attention, a knowing gleam in his eyes. "Something about Ensign Martine, is it?"

He was really glad he hadn't taken a drink just as the captain spoke, because he'd have snorted it everywhere; the captain didn't miss anything aboard this ship, he knew that from ship's gossip – but to see the Kirk omniscience in action was highly disconcerting.

"Very little goes on aboard this ship that I don't know about, Lieutenant," the captain continued, and then added with a warm smile, "and you haven't exactly been subtle, you know."

Tomlinson felt his ears burn.

"If you're worried about my giving you the dad-with-a-shotgun routine, then you can relax; that's Doctor McCoy's specialty."

He laughed, and felt himself relax against the dura-plas of the chair; it creaked under his weight. "I did want to know if it would cause a problem in your opinion, Captain. Mr. Scott has washed his hands of the whole business," he added dryly.

Kirk’s eyebrow rose slightly. “That might be because you crossed a few lines you shouldn’t have, early in your pursuit of the ensign. Did you really think no one filed a report on your harassment, or that we didn’t investigate it?”

The color drained from his face, but he wasn’t about to deny it. “Aye, sir, I did. I made some really stupid judgment calls.”

“And?”

“And I can promise I won’t be making them again, sir. Even if this doesn’t work out, I’ve been clearly shown the error of my ways, so to speak. By Angela, most clearly.”

Kirk's smile appeared again. "She’s a smart and strong woman. And I believe in allowing my crewmen to fight their own battles – but they should not _have_ to, Lieutenant. You are fortunate she didn’t ask to have you reprimanded.”

Good grief, he never even knew how lucky he’d been.

“More fortunate than I was even aware until now, sir.” He shook his head ruefully.

“Good. Then as long as you can remember that, _and_ separate duty from pleasure in the future, Mr. Tomlinson, you have my wholehearted endorsement.”

"No worries there, sir. She's a gorgeous distraction all right, but the ship comes first in a crisis."

"Excellent. I wish you both every happiness, then. But I do have one word of advice for you, Lieutenant, if you don't mind."

"I welcome it, sir."

Kirk glanced around, to ensure their privacy from eavesdroppers (though by now, on an off-hour, the mess was fairly deserted), and then turned his head back toward his subordinate. "Lieutenant, are you aware that the ensign is of a very religious background?"

He’d seen a crucifix in Angela's cabin at one point when they'd been sharing a meal and she’d made references once or twice, but she had seemed fairly easygoing and…normal, for lack of a better word, to him all this time. They hadn’t really talked much about it so far.

"She has a fairly rigid Catholic upbringing, Lieutenant," Kirk continued, raising an amused eyebrow at his dumbfounded expression. (2) "Yes, I do make it my business to know where my people are coming from," he added as a parenthesis before continuing. "But Ensign Martine is a very religious young woman, perhaps with different view of morality than you or I." A pointed look, and the captain's voice hardened, taking on a stern edge. "You’ve already shown some…concerning tendencies, at the start of your relationship. I don’t want to see another report on my desk from Engineering or Medical saying you’ve pushed her into something before she’s ready. I will _not_ have it on my ship."

His jaw dropped slightly; of all the advice he'd expected, getting The Talk from his captain didn't really rank in the top ten.

Kirk was continuing, disregarding his surprise in the bland manner of one who has no patience for such things. "Love and pleasure are not equal, and I expect all members of my crew to behave as professionals, with respect for each other and each other's beliefs. That goes for intimate relationships as well as professional ones. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly, Captain," he responded promptly. "But," he hastened to add, grateful that he had already decided long ago that he'd wait until the end of the universe if he had to for Angela Martine, "you don't have to worry about that at all."

"I’m pleased to hear it," the man replied with a nod. "And I’d like you to see to it that once your relationship develops to a physical level, you have her transferred to another phaser crew. That’s standard procedure aboard starships, even if it’s not an official regulation."

"Aye, aye, sir." He snapped off a rapid salute, and then, seeing a familiar dark head and little gold skirt slipping out of the room, hurried out of the mess, leaving Kirk chuckling indulgently behind him.

* * *

"Oooooooohhhhhh _The holly green, the ivy green, the prettiest picture ye've ever seen, is Christmas in Killarney – with all o' the folks at home! It's grand, y'know, to_ -" (3)

" _Zut_! Riley, for the love of all that is _sacré_ stop that caterwauling!"

Tomlinson rolled his eyes as for the third time in the last sixty minutes the two began bickering on the catwalks above the central processing core. Beta-shift navigator Kevin Riley and Lieutenant Verne from Technical were taking apart the secondary navigation control board in an effort to find some tiny glitch that kept popping up at random intervals and irritating Lieutenant Sulu by throwing their course off by a degree or two if the bug wasn't worked out manually.

Just another boring day, another boring job, and Angela was scheduled off-duty today. He'd have gone a little stir-crazy if he hadn't spent half of the last four hours being entertained by their grumpy little Frenchman's reactions to Riley's infectious Christmas spirit, his blithe and entirely off-key caroling punctuated cheerily by the clink of tools.

A loud clang and the skittering of metal on durasteel flooring sounded behind him, followed by dead silence from up above.

"Problem, gentlemen?" he called upward, not even looking up from the circuitry he was cleaning up; the wires were in a horrendous tangle.

"Erm." Riley coughed.

" _Vous l'idiot!_ "

"Look, you just said 'Hold this sonic laser,' not 'Hold this sonic laser and while you're at it keep an eye on that panel covering or one of us might knock it off the catwalk'!"

Tomlinson sighed and, rolling his eyes ceiling-ward, attached a miniature anti-grav unit to the panel and sent it flying upward again.

" _Merci_ , Robere," Verne's longsuffering voice floated down to him a moment later.

"Don't mention it," he muttered, replacing the last of the wires into a more methodical coil inside the circuit box; now next time there was a short, he wouldn't have to spend fifteen minutes untangling them before he could figure out which ones were live or not.

He hadn't scooted out from under the panel yet when small boots pattered to a stop beside his head. Grinning, he crawled out from under the console and greeted his visitor with a quick peck on the cheek.

"Still on for dinner, handsome?" Angela asked, smiling up at him.

He glanced ruefully down at his slightly-singed uniform shirt. "I may need ten."

"…Oooooohhhhh, _how grand it feels, to click your heels, and join in the fun of the jigs and reels_ –"

" _Arrêt!_ "

"RILEY!"

The warbling stopped again, and as he thumped his head vigorously against the nearest flat surface that wouldn't dent his skull he heard Angela giggle.

"How long has he been at that?"

"How many verses does that ridiculous song have?"

She laughed, and tugged on his arm before he could apply his head to another wall. "At least it isn't _I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen_ ," she reminded him, and he shuddered. "You look fine, half the crew is disheveled from the deep clean going on. Come on, we'll miss out on the eggnog test if we don't hurry down there."

"…Eggnog test?"

Eyes dancing, she pulled him toward the door. "The captain said he didn't mind if the Galley cooks did some experimenting, as long as they were using synthehol instead of alcohol until the night of the Christmas/Solstice party!"

"Kirk's going to allow actual alcohol at the party?" he asked incredulously.

"Only for those off-duty the next day, but yes!"

"Did someone say _eggnog_?" Riley bellowed from the catwalk.

"Not for bad Irish tenors!"

"Oy!"

Verne let loose with a string of colorful French, only part of which Tomlinson understood and dead sure wasn't going to translate it for the lady in the room. He needed no more harassment charges, thank you.

"I just hope whoever got poor Levarac's name in the gift exchange gives the guy ten pairs of earplugs," he muttered sagely.

"Mmhm." Angela linked her arm through his as they walked, her petite figure taking almost two steps to every one of his. He slowed down a little, cursing himself inside for forgetting to alter his walk accordingly when they'd first left the room. "And what, good sir, are you going to be getting me for the exchange?"

He'd admitted a couple of weeks before that his initial interest in her had been triggered by Commander Spock's computer script; she had been at first amused, and after that had done nothing but incessantly coax him to tell her what he was going to get her.

He was quite sure that if Mr. Spock found out that the randomized computer script was the catalyst behind the small gold-and-diamond ring hidden in his bureau, the Vulcan would die of sheer horror.

Come to think of it, Spock's face would be hilarious when he found out at the Christmas party; they had to be the only couple in Starfleet who'd had a Vulcan matchmaker…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) "All Starfleet personnel must obtain authorization from their CO as well as clearance from their medical officer before initiating an intimate relationship with an alien species." VOY, _The Disease_. There is no official Starfleet regulation in canon prohibiting fraternization between ranks, though we see it often in fanon. But it’s obviously limited in TOS if so, since people were permitted to be married aboard as we see in _Balance of Terror_.  
> (2) If you didn't remember these two, check out the beginning of _The Balance of Terror_. Angela Martine genuflects before the altar, and while it's debatable in fanon circles just what type of religious background she had I simply chose Catholicism as it's a very venerated and longstanding religion that most likely would continue at least derivatively into the twenty-third century. Also, as to their ranks, it's said later in the show that Tomlinson was Martine's superior officer.  
> (3) Lyrics are from _Christmas in Killarney_ (yes, I have Irish blood in me as well)


	7. Chapter Six

**_Chapter Six_ **

While Spock of Vulcan did not precisely comprehend the human concepts of friendship in all their many and varied forms, he had found researching that particular state of being to be a simple matter of practicality.

That being, one Captain James T. Kirk simply did not know how to take a hint.

Spock had served in Starfleet for a decade and a half without needing to do more than learn the perfunctory human courtesies expected of any civilized being. He enjoyed his work as a scientist, to the extent which was permitted of any Vulcan, and was content with the state of affairs as it stood.

And then. Then, Jim Kirk for some reason decided that this was entirely unacceptable, and informed him that he had, for lack of a better term, been _appropriated_ as the human’s friend, and he should simply accept the state of affairs as a logical outcome.

The human had then proceeded to laugh uproariously at his inability to counter that skewed argument, and captured his queen with a grin that was positively evil.

Even months into their official voyage and nearly a year after he’d first encountered the man, he was quite chagrined that he had no idea just how Kirk accomplished such a remarkable feat as to quite proficiently worm his way past any and all defenses Spock put up to repel him. It was a victory he must respect, and, if he must be completely honest, which intrigued him not a little.

And so, for one thing, he listened and attempted to learn; to learn all he could about this most unique of species. For the first time in his life, he actually had a desire to explore what precisely drove these humans to accomplish such ends as they were capable of, to learn all there was to know about them, their habits and strengths and idiosyncrasies and vices. One must know one’s opponent, after all. And, if one is to respond in kind, one must have a full set of data for the experiment.

* * *

In his Starfleet service as Science Officer and now First Officer, Spock had seen and done many strange things. He had been participant in alien rituals which defied scientific principle, been asked to explain the inexplicable, watched the humans with whom he interacted contradict themselves most illogically, tolerated the natural distrust and sometimes bigotry which resulted from his mixed heritage, attempted to study and understand the myriad of emotions which seemed as integral components of humanity as their molecular structure.

And yet, even after eleven years aboard the _Enterprise_ under Captain Pike and not quite a year under Captain Kirk, he was no closer to understanding the human emotions of physical attraction.

Captain Pike had made it quite clear that the only woman in his life was his Number One, and so James Kirk was a considerably different personality in that regard; and yet, this human's reputation was highly exaggerated, as Spock well knew. Kirk was undoubtedly attractive to many – there were enough physical results to prove sufficient evidence on that grounds – and he could see the human's magnetic charisma and charm working amongst his crew from his first day aboard. To be attracted to a brilliant personality – and a brilliant mind – was not an incomprehensible thing to a Vulcan; the mind, after all, was the key component in a relationship for his species. The attraction lay in the mental compatibility, pure and simple; not in the physical attraction or compatibility. Species, gender, race, personality; none of it mattered as much as complete acceptance within the mind of the bond-mate or family member with whom one engaged in the relationship. Humans, being non-telepathic, had only the physical to form an attraction, and yet he could not see how they could possibly do so on such transient ideals as coloring and physical fitness.

His own bond with T'Pring, muted though it was at present due to time and space (and, if he were to be completely honest with himself, due to the fact that he cared not enough about it to properly nurture it), was his only experience with what humans would equate a romantic relationship; and yet how could it qualify as such, when he had not been given choice so much as informed that his seven-year-old promised was simply the most mentally compatible with his hybrid mind? It was not the Vulcan Way to bring other factors into the matching process, and he accepted that with perfect equanimity; as a not-yet-mature Vulcan, he had no physical needs to satisfy, no desires to satiate, and certainly no need for the feelings associated with what humans referred to as _love affairs_.

Spock quite simply therefore did not understand, to use the Terran expression, what roughly half the known galaxy seemed to see in Captain Kirk.

Kirk had always welcomed his questions regarding the complexities of human emotions and actions; and so, one evening, Spock observed as much to his dining companions, when the daughter of an aging diplomat whom they had been ferrying to a conference twelve hours distant flounced off in a huff due to the captain's kind yet firm refusal of her not-subtle advances.

Upon Spock's casual observation, Doctor McCoy inhaled one of his chow mein noodles and began choking on it. The captain only stared at him incredulously, face turning a peculiar shade of dark crimson. This was indicative on humans of embarrassment, and he began to wonder what it was he had said which might cause such a reaction.

He could not tell if the strangled noises emanating from Dr. McCoy's portion of the table space were hoots of laughter or indications of impending asphyxiation, and it was only when Kirk elbowed the other man in the ribs that he realized it was the former.

"That's awfully harsh, Spock," Kirk finally managed, taking a hasty drink of water and then setting the cup down, only to fidget with it. The human looked as if he could not decide whether to laugh or hide in mortification. "I mean I'm aware that Vulcans may not really have the same sexual preferences as humans, due to being above the more shallow emotions, but –"

"Captain, I am unaware of what I have said which could be construed as 'harsh,' by any standards," he replied blankly. "I merely observed that I do not in any way comprehend the concepts of human attraction based upon physical appearance…?"

"…Ah," was the response he received, which was hardly enlightening. However, some of the color began to leave the captain's face, which he took as an encouraging sign. "Then," Kirk added, "you weren't talking about my physical appearance personally?"

He regarded the human in astonishment, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. "Negative."

"Well, now that you've patched up his deflated ego, Mr. Spock, I'm gonna get some more fruit salad and get back to the labs to finish those tests," McCoy chuckled, skillfully evading the dangerous glare and the elbow Kirk was sending his direction "Want anything before I leave?"

"Negative, Doctor."

"You going to unlock my meal card so I can have hot chocolate?"

"Nope."

"Then get lost," Kirk grinned, not truly put-out, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

The doctor clapped the man on the shoulder in commiseration and moved toward the food selectors, leaving them to finish their meal.

"So," Kirk began conversationally, "another lesson in illogical human behavior, is it, Mr. Spock?"

He gave a minute eyebrow-shrug, which he was aware the human would take as an affirmative.

"Physical attraction," the captain continued, eyes pensive. "I take it that Vulcans are, what…attracted to intelligence, then?"

"Essentially, that is correct. The mind is the basis for any relationship, romantic or otherwise, as without the power of the mind there is no controlling the emotional turbulence which might be elicited from the relationship of two individuals. This does not surprise you," he observed, as the human only nodded, smiling a little.

"It does not," Kirk replied.

"May I ask why?" he inquired curiously. "Most are quite shocked to find that a race such as mine would acknowledge the possibility of emotional compromise at all."

"Mr. Spock, Mr. Spock, you are a very precise, _extremely_ precise, speaker," Kirk replied, pointing an empty spoon his direction for emphasis. "And you have always chosen your words with almost ridiculous precision."

He inclined an eyebrow, indicating for the man to proceed.

"And," Kirk continued, smiling at him, "you've almost always said you do not _feel_ emotions."

"That is correct."

"Therefore," the human added, eyes narrowed, "you've made the point that you still have them. You simply control them to the point they are not a physical sensation. That doesn’t mean that they aren't still somewhere within some part of you. No being can truly exist without the acknowledging of at least some emotion, Mr. Spock," Kirk added when he would have interrupted to correct the erroneous hypothesis. "What about curiosity? That's an emotion, one that is permitted in any scientific field. And," the man looked at him, leaning forward intensely, "it only makes sense that any Vulcan relationship would have to be first and foremost founded on the power of the mind, because only then will that power keep that relationship from spiraling out of control as so many human relationships do. It's quite…logical, to coin a phrase."

Had he been less tolerant of this one human's teasing, he might have resented the half-jesting tone – but the words were spoken seriously, and to some extent Kirk was correct and they both knew it.

"One thing you might want to try to understand about humans, Mr. Spock, is that we want that which we know we can't have, the unattainable. It's just the allure of the unknown; you as a scientist can understand that, surely."

He nodded slowly, as his mind processed this idea.

Kirk drank from his water glass, and amusedly eyed his First over the top of the cup. "Especially women, they seem to be allured by not just physical attractiveness, but the idea that the object – or person – in question is utterly unattainable…or, more mysteriously, _chooses_ to be so."

He sent the human a blank look, and then had no idea why the captain chuckled softly. "And that right there, is exactly why half the Science staff can't focus when you're around, Commander."

He had assumed it was due to his exacting requirements to work directly under his supervision; he expected no less than the best from his people, and had no qualms about informing them of the fact and requiring work to match. Now, Kirk was trying to tell him that his staff was…

Though unacquainted with human emotions, he was no fool; the realization startled him.

Kirk sent him a longsuffering look as a yeoman approached their table, obviously reluctant to disturb them, and handed the human a padd to sign off on.

"Sorry, sir," she murmured.

"No apologies necessary, Yeoman. There you are."

"Thank you, sir." The young woman hastily went around their table in her efforts to exit as quickly as possible, and in the process jostled the padd in her arms. The stylus, dislodged from its clip, went rolling across the floor, amid a smattering of impolite titters from a nearby table of junior lieutenants as she moved to pick it up.

Proper manners were taught to all species, especially to a diplomat's son, and so it was mere reflex; Spock sent the lieutenants a frosty look which silenced them instantly, and retrieved the errant stylus. He was somewhat mystified to see the young woman turn a similar shade to the captain's coloring a few minutes ago, stammer a hasty word of thanks, and then move more hastily toward the door than she had been previously; perhaps it was embarrassment, though over such a trifle?

Upon returning to his seat, he found James Kirk laughing into his water cup.

"Sir?"

"That right there, Mr. Spock. That. Right. There."

"I am unaware of to what you refer, Captain."

"I know," Kirk replied, grinning as he finished off his drink. "And that utter cluelessness is part of the allure, you can take my word for it."

"…You are implying that Yeoman Tamura is…harboring romantic thoughts regarding my person?"

"You do have a _wonderfully_ pretty way with words, Mr. Spock," and yes, he was capable of recognizing Kirkian sarcasm when it hit him. "Yes, she is, along with half the crew I'll wager."

This simply did not make sense, even less sense than usual when dealing with this most illogical of species. "Simply because I exercised proper courtesy in retrieving a fallen object?"

"That's part of it, yes."

"I would have done the same for you or anyone else, Captain," he pointed out.

"Yes, but _I_ don't have a crush on you, Commander," the human retorted.

"…Right, an' I walked by on the wrong end of _that_ conversation," an amused Montgomery Scott shot over his shoulder as he passed their table.

Spock watched in absent fascination as Lieutenant Uhura swatted their Chief Engineer upside the head with a disposable napkin; the action was utterly futile, as the weapon would barely be felt. It must be a human tradition, the functional purpose of which escaped him.

Kirk only shot the both of them a tolerant glare, making a shooing motion with his hands.

Once the two were out of earshot, Spock turned his attention back toward his captain, who was watching the pair with fondness. From what he knew of human behavior, the conclusions were obvious. "I had not been aware of the relationship between the Chief and Lieutenant Uhura," he ventured cautiously.

Kirk glanced back at him. "I'm not so sure there's actually a relationship, so much as the wish for one but the knowledge that this voyage really isn't the best time or place for one, in their positions," he replied softly. "They've both shown an uncommon common sense regarding their understanding of stations and rank, and the example that has to be shown to subordinates."

He nodded in complete approval; both Scott and the Lieutenant were exceptional officers, and he had no complaints with either of them in any fashion. "Not all officers are so sensible, which in turn makes for ease of communication and a lack of tension between them," was his final observation as his finished his soup.

Kirk turned his attention from eavesdropping on two shifty-eyed crewmen at the next table, to eye him with barely-concealed amusement, tempered with only a dash of sympathy. "Chapel stalking you again?"

"Captain," he reproved, for it was not only disrespectful of the woman but also far too crude a term for the action.

"Sorry."

Spock was not being _stalked_ , as the humans put it; the Head Nurse was nothing if not professional, despite the awkwardness which had resulted recently from the events of the Psi2000 epidemic. She had never since then spoken a word in any way inappropriate toward him, nor given more than the usual vague signs of her attraction toward him. Chapel was an exceptional officer, and a professional to the core – and yet, he remained uneasy in her presence, and he could not fully explain why.

"She has done nothing to warrant such accusations, Captain."

"In that case I genuinely apologize," the man replied readily enough, flushing slightly. "But I’m not sure you’re the best judge, Spock. Everyone can see how she's still not over you. I don't want you to feel that you have to accept the attention, if she ever gets out of hand."

"I appreciate your concern, Captain, ill-founded though it may be. Nurse Chapel is a consummate professional."

Kirk gave him an odd look, a spark lighting in the back of his golden gaze. "That's high praise, coming from you, Mr. Spock," said he slowly, smiling.

He sent the human a withering look, for he could sense enough of Kirk's emotions to know exactly where the man's thoughts were heading. "I am incapable of romantic interest toward a member of this crew, sir."

"Of course, Mr. Spock." Kirk did not sound fully convinced, but the human was wise enough to know that teasing had its place and this was not it.

However, Spock would be the first to admit that he was completely out of his depth in this particular area; and yet he rebelled stubbornly at asking for assistance. But then, conversely, was it not _logical_ to enlist the aid of a human, when attempting to understand another human?

He was still mentally debating the point, when he became aware that the captain had picked up on the fact that he was withholding something, and in true Kirkian fashion the human addressed it without preamble.

"All kidding aside, Mr. Spock, is something bothering you about her? Right, that would be an emotion," the man amended with a grin, at the inclined eyebrow he received. "I mean, let's see…is something causing you mental distraction regarding the problem of her unrequited, if _professional_ , attraction toward you?"

This illogical human's way of rephrasing emotions into extremely skewed logical statements was far _more_ distracting, but he did not say so. Instead, he decided that to not avail one's self of an offer of assistance was not logical, and so he slowly nodded.

After making certain no one around was close enough to hear their conversation, he spoke. "It is not Nurse Chapel's attentions which are disturbing, Captain, as she has always been professional and quite competent. But I am a _Vulcan_ , sir," and here he emphasized the words earnestly, mentally prompting the human to grasp what he wished to say but his Vulcan half would not permit him to.

As he had illogically hoped, Kirk's unique ability to understand him filled in the gaps, and a sudden understanding flickered between them. "And as such, you know even if you were inclined to do so you'd never be able to… _love_ her, like she wants you to," the captain prompted gently.

"As she deserves someone to," he agreed, relieved that he did not need to be more specific. Christine Chapel, he had discovered upon both their being infected by the Psi2000 virus, had an extremely interesting mind; that much he had seen instantly upon their contact. She was a very strong, admirably intelligent woman, and while he harbored nothing close to interest in her beyond that of purely intellectual kinship, he was aware that in human circles saying so was not the compliment it would be among his people – rather, it would likely be an insult to Chapel as both a woman and a friend.

Humans. Their ideals were at such odds with Vulcan principle that his best intentions sometimes could be interpreted as insults he would never even think of giving. How did one build any sort of relationship, professional or otherwise, upon such a quicksand?

"And you don't want to hurt her feelings by telling her so, is that it?”

Spock nodded. "That is correct, Captain."

"That's a whole lot easier said than done," Kirk sighed, leaning back in his chair with an expression of deep thought.

"I am aware, sir," was his ironic reply, and a smile twitched at the human's mouth. "She is a valued colleague, and I would no more willingly do harm to her mental or emotional state than I would to yours or any other member of this crew."

"Except Bones," the captain added, grinning.

"I believe the phrase is, he brings it upon himself."

Kirk laughed, and stood to return to the Bridge. He picked up his empty tray and began moving toward the disposal units, Spock three paces behind him. It was not until they were in a more private location, namely the turbolift, that the captain turned to him to finish their conversation.

"My advice, Mr. Spock, for what it's worth to you, would just be to be yourself around her," the man said, and he could see that there was no levity in the human's expression, only a sincere desire for things to, as they said, _work out_ among his officers. "She's a very smart woman, Spock," Kirk added unnecessarily, but then explained, "and she's perfectly capable of drawing the same conclusions you just indicated to me. If she has any sense about her at all – and I believe she does – then she'll grow accustomed to the idea and just be happy to accept what you're able to give her."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was given to understand that humans rarely think so logically when their emotions are concerned, Captain."

"Yes, but then again I don't think you'd be quite so careful about hurting her feelings unless you respected her a great deal – and as far as I've seen, you respect the mind the most, isn't that right?"

"Correct," he admitted, for he had not thought of it like that before. From his brief contact with the nurse from their joined hands, he had sensed that logical mind and had been intrigued by it. Possibly, actually probably, Jim was correct.

"Conclusions?"

"I shall bow to your much superior experience with such matters," he returned, quite gratefully; but he could not understand why the human's face increased in coloration again, nor why Kirk shook his head and placed a despairing hand over his eyes just before the doors opened to deposit them on the Bridge.

"Please, Mr. Spock," the human said in an muttered sigh as they moved across the Bridge, though he could hear an undercurrent of wry amusement in the words, "do me and my ego a favor, and have our resident rumor mill explain a thing or two to you about human reputations and the tactful ways of addressing personal issues?"

"Sir?"

"Status, Mr. Sulu?" Kirk asked, much louder, and completely ignored his bewildered query.

Spock would never be certain if it had been entire random chance (highly unlikely; the odds were exactly one thousand, four hundred and eighteen to one against), or simply the fact that this personal matter had been occupying a deal of his meditation time as well as his working hours – but if the latter, then he had only his own subconscious to blame for the fact that _his_ programmed computer script apparently assigned him the name Christine Chapel for this ludicrous human holiday gift exchange in which he had so rashly agreed to participate.

This could not _possibly_ end well.


	8. Chapter Seven

**_Chapter Seven_ **

Ship's Stores and Requisition was, without question, one of the worst places aboard ship to work. If supplies weren't where they needed to be in the galley, it was SS&R which got blamed for it. If Mr. Spock denied a requisition from Health and Recreation for triple the daily water requisitions, SS&R was the messenger that got shot over the relayed bad news. If Sickbay didn't have clean thermal blankets and medical supplies waiting when needed, the blame for delayed medical treatment fell on them (along with Dr. McCoy's formidable temper). If the captain needed yet another clean uniform tunic, even if it was his fifth in as many days, SS&R personnel were the ones who fielded the irritated comms.

However, it was also one of the most fascinating places to work if you wanted to learn about people in general, and that was why Ensign Chee'tha enjoyed his job far more than his colleagues.

Chee'tha was one of the very few non-human aboard Kirk's _Enterprise_. The lack of diversity on Kirk's ship was not due to any prejudices on either the captain's part or Starfleet's; rather, it was simply the fact that the Federation was still cautiously attempting to experiment and see which species would best serve together in a close environment as a starship for years at a time, while still requiring very little adjustment on either party. Mr. Spock was a notable exception; his concessions to the human-norm temperature in most areas of the ship and the lighter gravity had proven to be a boon to the _Enterprise_ , as most full Vulcans could not properly adapt to the different conditions. While species such as the Tellarites and Andorians could adequately travel as passengers on Federation standard vessels, the difference in climate and atmosphere would prove to be far too drastic for them to live in extended periods of time simply due to their physiology.

But Chee'tha was a hybrid himself; his father had been human but his mother a member of the felinoid race the Katarrans. Katarra, a small planet on the outskirts of the neighboring system to that which housed the planet of Vulcan, had been one of the first planets to join the Federation after it had been formed. Its native were somewhat felinoid in appearance, though without tails and whiskers or pointed ears or other extremely cat-like features: more like extremely hairy humanoids, only with occasional indications of their evolution, including the ability to walk uncannily silently.

Like all his species, Chee'tha was an extremely sociable being, and very much enjoyed his time at Starfleet Academy. Despite the fact that physically he bore more resemblance to his mother, his good nature and unassuming demeanor made him well-liked both at the Academy and on board the _Enterprise_ , his first long-term posting. Like all youngling Katarrans, his eye color had not yet changed from blue to its permanent adult color, and that coupled with his thick, silky brown hair got him many strange second looks until he cheerfully explained his ancestry to whoever was interested enough to listen. Like Commander Spock, he was from a considerably warmer planet, and so wore the standard Starfleet-issue thermals below his uniform at all times, though his thick fur kept him warmer than he would have been had he appeared more humanoid.

That alone was one reason he loved to work in Ship's Stores; that department was in the very guts of the ship, directly below Engineering and her massive warp core, which generated an incredible amount of heat energy, cooking the lower parts of the ship to a very comfortable temperature for him. His co-workers continually complained about the heat, preferring to shed their tunics in favor of the lighter jumpsuits some departments had for that very reason, but Chee'tha was quite comfortable where he was and with what he was doing.

Like all felinoid species, Chee'tha was a curious individual, and that was the second reason he enjoyed working in SS&R. Working with the various requests which came in from all over the ship for various supplies and oddities, he learned a great deal about human culture which he could not learn while growing up on Katarra, even with a human father.

A strange race, these humans, requiring so very much maintenance for even the most basic of everyday living activities, to say nothing of their recreational pursuits. Chee'tha himself preferred to nap pleasantly in a more warm area of the ship, or to engage in a friendly wrestling match or table-tennis competition with some of his fellow crewmates, rather than wrap his mind around a book or play some Terran game involving small playing pieces and cards and dice and far too many rules to be easily learned. Recreation sometimes placed the most bizarre requests for items whose purpose he could only guess at, much to the combined amusement of his colleagues, and as for the personal requests from some of the crew…he was most likely better off not knowing.

Take, for example, this Terran holiday known as Thanksgiving. While at the Academy, he had been pleased to be introduced to the holiday, and more pleased that it revolved around so pleasant a thing as time spent talking with family and eating immense meals involving such superb foods as the largest of Terran poultry. He was even more pleased to discover that, even though not all the crew aboard the _Enterprise_ celebrated the holiday and that it meant little in space, Captain Kirk still intended to celebrate it for those who wished it.

Lieutenant Kalov recounted his conversation with the captain in question as they worked to fill orders from the Medical labs one and two, one lazy morning while nothing much was happening aboard ship.

"And I told him, how do you expect a meatloaf to taste like anything but a meatloaf, even if it does _look_ a turkey?" Kalov told him, ruefully glaring at the offending replication report. (1)

"How do you expect it to taste like anything but a _replicated_ meatloaf, which is even worse," Ensign Peters snorted from across the room. "Me, I don't see how anybody could be thankful even on Thanksgiving for that."

"Yes, but can you imagine what the non-meat eaters’ will taste like? _Vegetarian_ replicated meatloaf? Veggieloaf?"

Various exclamations and groans of disgust filled the room, much to Chee'tha's amusement.

"I sure hope we stop at a Starbase before Christmas comes around," Kalov added, shaking his head. "Two cases of those empty hypospray cartridges, Chee-chee, set them down on Anti-grav Three. But if we don't, it's going to be slim pickings around here for the holidays. I wonder what Kirk is going to let us do; last year we were patrolling the neutral zone and were on red alert for most of the holidays, didn't do anything at all. Peters, we need seven intravenous units to add to that, and then ship it up to Dr. McCoy."

"Roger that."

"And no stopping to chat up Nurse Anya on your way back down," Kalov shouted after him, grinning at the blush it produced.

Chee'tha returned from setting the boxes on the anti-grav unit scheduled to be dropped at Science Lab Three. "What, traditionally, is permitted aboard a starship during the holidays?" he inquired curiously, for he was greatly interested in experiencing all the elements of the holiday season, never having seen many of them before.

"It depends on the commander, unfortunately," Kalov returned, handing him a crate of plasticine storage units for the labs. "I served with Captain Moravo on the research vessel _Encounter_ before being transferred to the _Enterprise_ , and he didn't celebrate Christmas at all so the rest of the crew just pretty much did their own thing in their own ways. Pike was always pretty lenient with what anyone wanted to do, but he didn't really instigate much by way of entertainment or parties or anything But Captain Kirk…he's unorthodox." Kalov's eyes glinted, Chee'tha noticed, a sign of human interest. "Who knows, Chee-chee. Who knows."

* * *

The weeks before the Terran holidays were busier than any others for their department, and also the most stressful; very few crewmen thought twice about requesting anything and everything from SS&R. Even though Starfleet allotted extra supplies for each ship this time of year out of concession to the season, said supplies were still in limited quantity, and more bartering went on among the crew than actual requisitions to the ship's stores.

"Honestly," Chee'tha heard Lieutenant Kalov snarl under his breath one late evening as he fielded the inordinate number of calls and requisitions from all over the ship, "you'd think we didn't have anything else to do except supply _wrapping paper_ to any _idiot_ who won't do the sensible thing and just _recycle_ a box or something! And so help me St. Nicholas, if I see one more request for a replicator override so that some dimwit in Engineering can make hot chocolate on the warp coils, _heads will roll_ , and probably mine if Mr. Scott has any say in it…"

Chee'tha's nearly-silent rumble of laughter was well-hidden in the chaos of rushing personnel, who were scurrying around to fill the more important requisitions from Sciences (Mr. Spock got quite logically put-out if his labs didn't have what they needed) and Engineering.

"Lieutenant Uhura's on the comm, Kalov," someone shouted over the din, from off to their left. "Wants to know if the decorations for the Solstice/Christmas party will be ready by the end of next week, or should she get some of the boys from Engineering to help us find 'em in this mess?"

Chee'tha wondered greatly at the human predilection for self-destruction, as the brittle clunk which sounded upon Kalov's repeated cranial impact with the wall did not sound at all pleasant. "Tell her we'll keep her posted, unless you know where in the name of all that's organized the Christmas lights are in this wreck of a storage compartment! And I'm not letting anyone from Engineering in here, not after that Riley kid knocked over that box of spare components for the turboshafts!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Heads up, Chee-chee," Kalov called, and tossed him a bundle. Catlike reflexes ensured he caught it perfectly and turned to place it in the proper bin; they were in the middle of restocking the officers' quarters with basic toiletries and textiles; humans' towels and socks apparently had a way of disappearing without warning, he had been told. "What's left on that list?"

"Just the bedding for Deck Five," he reported, consulting the padd for a brief moment. "Standard replacements, but Mr. Spock has requested two extra blankets."

Kalov halted, and looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "What for?"

"He's cold?" Chee'tha replied dryly.

"There are temperature controls in his room, Chee-chee. He can make the place hot as Vulcan if he wants to," the Lieutenant retorted. "Is the captain's signature on that requisition?"

Chee'tha scanned the document. "No."

"I wonder if the temperature controls malfunctioned and he just hasn't said anything because he knows Maintenance is so busy," Kalov muttered as he set down the bin of pillows he was carrying. "Would be just like him to suffer in silence rather than ask someone to take on another job this time of the calendar. Computer, access Maintenance mainframe, authorization Kalov, Ship's Stores."

_"Working."_

"Status of ship's systems. Subfolder Environmental Control."

_"Environmental Control access granted. Specify inquiry."_

"Condition of environmental controls in First Officer Spock's quarters."

_"Environmental controls fully operational."_

Kalov glared at the computer. "Specifically, condition of temperature controls in same cabin."

_"Fully operational."_

Chee'tha met the lieutenant's look with a helpless gesture of one lightly-furred hand. "No ideas."

"Well I can't just dish out extra supplies to anyone on board without a reason, not even if he is Commander Spock, not without specific captain's approval." Kalov groaned, rubbing his forehead with one hand in a gesture Chee'tha knew indicated cranial pain on humans. "I don't have time for this. Computer, location of Captain James T. Kirk."

_"Captain Kirk is in Commander Spock's quarters."_

The two men blinked at each other for a moment.

Then a slow smile began to spread over Kalov's face. "Computer, current temperature of Mr. Spock's cabin?"

_"Commander Spock's cabin is set at Terran norm."_

Chee'tha grinned, and Kalov chuckled. "Send three of 'em up there, Chee-chee. Poor guy's gonna freeze himself to death. It's no wonder the captain can beat him at chess half the time, not if he keeps that cabin the equivalent of a Vulcan refrigerator when the man's in there."

A commiserating shiver ran through Chee'tha's frame at the very thought, and he went to locate the thickest of the blankets they kept in ship's stores. He returned just in time to see Kalov fairly whimpering in dismay as he stared at the requisition message queue.

"What is it?"

"Requisitions from Sickbay – McCoy wants to talk to me personally," Kalov moaned.

"I do not see the problem?"

"You've never seen our CMO in action, have you?" At Chee'tha's indication of a negative, Kalov's lips twitched in an evil-looking smirk. "Well come along, then; it's always good to have a backup when McCoy's involved. If he thinks I'm going to give him double the hot water requisition for the next week without explanation, he's got another think coming. And heat lamps? Who in this century still uses _heat lamps_? Seriously…"

* * *

Chee'tha had been fortunate enough to not have the need to enter Sickbay since his coming aboard at the inception of the Enterprise's five-year mission. His species rarely grew ill, and he was immune to many human ailments. Also, SS&R was one of the safest places in which to work, a far cry from the other end of Ops, Security. He had never been in Sickbay before, and had never met the human Leonard McCoy in person.

He'd heard rumors, though. Lieutenant Uhura had said once that the man was a baby-blue-eyed Southern sweetheart; McCoy's nursing staff adored him and feared him equally; his friend Ensign Turner from Engineering said he was brill (whatever that meant; Chee'tha had not yet completely mastered Earth regional dialects), and Kalov's exact words were _scary enough to back down an armada of Klingons_.

Chee'tha's experience with the human recreational pastime known as gossip was that most rumors were founded in a modicum of truth but otherwise highly exaggerated.

However, these rumors were apparently completely accurate.

The instant they walked into Sickbay, a Southern bellow greeted them, as the physician was apparently berating a young man from Life Sciences, judging from the blue tunic and suitably tolerant expression (anyone in Life Sciences worked directly with both McCoy and Commander Spock; little surprised or scared them).

"Should be fine after the antibiotic I just gave you, Gomez. And the next time you're workin' with pathogens, I don't care how mild, and you 'forget' to wear a breather, I'll have Spock boot you down to Recycling for the rest of this mission, y'hear me?"

"Aye, sir!"

"Now _get_."

The poor ensign cringed, saluting sharply as he scuttled out the side doors as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Be right with you," McCoy called over his shoulder as he moved toward a young man who was curled up in a chair at one side of the waiting area.

Chee'tha watched, wide-eyed, as the irascible, arm-flailing tantrum disappeared and the physician gently shook the young man awake (how he had slept through the minor disturbance a moment ago indicated how exhausted he must have been).

"Doctor?" the sleepy slur floated up from a mop of ruffled dark blond hair, and two half-shut eyes blinked up at the man.

McCoy's voice was gentle. "Not that I don't think you need sleep, kid, but I thought you'd want to know she's past the danger zone now; gonna be fine with some rest and proper nutrition."

The young man's eyes went wide, his whole body springing into action in an instant even as gratitude wreathed his face in smiles.

A small grin teased at the corner of the CMO's mouth, and he gave the young man a push in the direction of an isolation ward. "Go on, and you can take her back to your cabin if you follow the instructions Anya will give you about her."

"Thank you so much, Doctor," the young man breathed, and after beaming beatifically at the whole room he dashed into the cubicle, all smiles.

"Now then, Lieutenant," McCoy began, removing his protective gloves. "You're here about my requisition report, I take it?"

Kalov was staring, unabashedly, and Chee'tha wondered why.

"Doctor," Kalov began uncertainly.

"Hmm? Come through to the office, don't stand there cluttering things up. Ensign Chee'tha, isn't it?"

"Yes, Doctor," Chee'tha responded, smiling.

"Good to meet you. Nothing personal here, young fella, but I have to ask for medical reasons – you don't shed, do you?"

Kalov looked vaguely horrified at the straight inquiry, but Chee'tha only rumbled a laugh for he understood the necessity of the question. "I do not, Doctor; nor does my fur contain the proteins to which many humans are allergic in your Terran felines."

"Good, good. No offense."

"None taken, Doctor." Chee'tha quite liked the frank physician; he was refreshing.

But Kalov still appeared to be gaping rather like a Terran goldfish. "Doctor," the lieutenant finally managed, "wasn't that O'Brien from Library and Research?"

"Yes, what of it?" the physician returned, waving them impatiently to two chairs.

"He doesn't have any relatives, not even a girlfriend, aboard this ship, because he's a _hermit_ ," Kalov continued, staring blankly.

"Your point?"

"Who on earth were you talking about then, that he was so worried over?"

"Patricia, his Siamese kitten," McCoy returned absently, rooting through his desk for a data-padd and stylus.

Kalov's eyes looked to be in danger of popping from his head. "His WHAT?"

"Small animals are permitted aboard ship with the captain's permission, if the individual benefits from their presence," the physician answered, stifling a yawn. "The poor thing's been puny lately, and the boy's frettin' himself to pieces over it. Simple case of the stupid furball eating too much human food and not proper feline nutritional supplements…again, no offense, Chee'tha," McCoy added, realizing he had used the word 'stupid,' "and just a yesterday it ate a half a chocolate bar the idiot had lyin' around open in his quarters."

Chee'tha's purring chuckle relaxed the physician, though Kalov looked close to exploding. "And he brought that fat little butterball to _you_ to treat?"

"I'm a doctor, not a vet," McCoy responded sourly, "but the closest thing on this ship unfortunately. Remind me to vacuum that unit, the thing probably shed everywhere. Nurse Chapel will be sneezing for days."

Kalov blinked, and rubbed again at his head as if warding off a headache. Chee'tha noted with interest that the physician across from them only looked mildly amused, not really worried.

"Right, so moving on," the lieutenant finally muttered, producing the list of requisitions McCoy had sent them. "You know full well I can't give you all of this without Mr. Spock's direct approval; I can give you the hot water without special permission but how the deuce do you think I can get you a heat lamp without Commander Spock's approval to expend the energy and matter to replicate one?"

"It's _for_ Commander Spock, Lieutenant," McCoy groused irritably, glaring at them as if they were responsible for the regulations which forbade replicating major non-necessities. "It's time for the man's quarterly physical and you can't expect me to coax him down here and take his shirt off if the bed and atmosphere around it isn't warm enough for him to safely do so without skewing test results!"

Kalov blinked. "Are your temperature controls malfunctioning too, Doctor?"

"No, but you can't expect me to examine him in upwards of forty-degree heat, can you?" the physician blustered, waving an arm for emphasis. "Now give me the daggone heat lamp, or I'll tell the captain exactly who it was that mixed up his shampoo with his shaving cream last week!"

"…You wouldn't."

"I most certainly would," McCoy retorted, arms folded. "And don't think I didn't notice that you shorted me four petrie dishes in Biolab Eight, either. Having problems with the glass replication script again, are we?"

Chee'tha, quite fascinated, finally realized he was being treated to an intimate look at how the Enterprise's inner workings functioned – apparently by blackmail.

"That’s none of your business," Kalov growled, scribbling on his padd. "How exactly do you think I can replicate a heat lamp for you without captainal permission?"

"Kalov, do you really think Jim will refuse to sign the thing when he knows it's for the Commander's comfort during a physical?"

"No, but do you know how hard it is to get his signature on anything, this time of year?" the lieutenant fairly wailed.

"Not my problem. Find his yeoman and chat her up, she's eager enough for his attention."

"Doctor, you are a grouchy, gossipy old man."

McCoy didn't bat an eye. "And this surprises you, how?"

"I can give you the hangover remedies under the umbrella of preventative medicinal supplies for the holidays," Kalov growled, consulting the padd again, "but I seriously doubt I can come up with this Saurian brandy, even a decent replicated version of it. Somehow I doubt Starfleet will see it as having medicinal properties."

"Scott owes me something from last week's poker game," the physician returned, unconcerned. "And don't think I don't know you have his stash of illegal hooch down there somewhere, ever since Commander Spock started tapping panels in Engineering lookin' for the collapsible still."

Chee'tha gaped openly at that; it was one of the many secrets which were really not secrets to anyone but visitors on the _Enterprise_ , but to hear it spoken of so openly was a complete shock.

Kalov sighed, giving up for the present. "Fine, fine, I'll see what I can get you. But," the man added, a devious glint in his eyes, "then I don't want to hear any of you medical lot lowering the boom if and when Lieutenant Uhura's crew puts up decorations in the main science lab for the party, mistletoe or not. You get two hours to inspect and that’s it."

"Deal," McCoy replied, grinning amicably. "And if you make that brandy Romulan ale, I _might_ just forget you're due for a physical here in the next month or so, Lieutenant."

"You take unfair advantage of a man's weaknesses, Doc."

"How else do you think I've lasted this long on this insane ship without going crazy myself? Now get outta my Sickbay, I have work to do, reports to file, cat hair to clean – again, no offense, Chee'tha. Pleasure to finally meet you. Stay away from poinsettias this holiday season."

Chee'tha laughed again at the quaint human. "Also a pleasure, Doctor McCoy."

"Now shoo. Oh and send me up another batch of general anti-microbial sterile wipes when you think of it, Kalov, that bug Yeoman Danvers caught on that last away mission was nastier than we thought."

Kalov sighed and made the notation on his padd, and motioned for Chee'tha to follow him out of Sickbay.

"And that, Chee-chee, is Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer," Kalov informed him as they entered the turbolift.

"He is a very fascinating human."

"That's one word for it," Kalov muttered. "Now we have to find out where Scotty stashed that stuff down there…"

* * *

Chee'tha was busily engaged in sorting boxes of foodstuffs for the galley and recreation departments the next day when a sudden horrified exclamation erupted from the next room followed by the pounding of footsteps.

A frantic-looking Ensign Peters came sprinting through the companionway, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Lieutenant! Holy holy crap, KALOV!"

"What in the galaxy," Kalov growled, poking his head out from the overhead bins, where he was rooting for the replicated conifer decorations. "Peters, this had better be important –"

"Mr. Spock is on his way down here for a surprise inspection!" the ensign wailed. "Stan just saw him heading this way with the captain, and he's got one of those god-awful clipboards, and this place is a TRAIN WRECK, and –"

"Problem, gentlemen?" the familiar voice of Captain Kirk washed over the chaos from behind them all, and Chee'tha rather thought Kalov was contemplating crawling up into the bin and hiding.

"Oh boy," was Peters's coherent answer.

"Captain," Kalov managed to choke out as he scrambled down, telegraphing a frantic message to Chee'tha to kick the bottle of Romulan ale out of sight under the nearest console. "We…weren't expecting an inspection, sir, and with the holidays coming up it's a bit of a wreck in here, and –"

"Relax, Mr. Kalov," Kirk chuckled, waving a hand in dismissal. "I've just a couple of things I wanted to check in with you about, regarding the holiday festivities. We're not here to actually inspect anything…unless you think there's something I need to see, Lieutenant?"

"Definitely not, sir!"

Kirk smiled meaningfully. "Good. Mr. Spock, you have the issues highlighted there, I believe? If you'll go over them with the Lieutenant, I'd like a word in private with Ensign Chee'tha."

"Aye, sir," the Vulcan intoned solemnly, and Kalov braced himself.

Chee'tha obediently followed the captain into the next room, where the noise of the replicators covered any chance of their being overheard. "Have I done something, Captain?" he asked nervously, scratching one furry hand through his bushy hair.

"No, no, not at all, Mr. Chee'tha," Kirk chuckled. "Relax. This is entirely personal business." Chee'tha sighed with relief. "I've a question for you, if you don't mind my asking, Ensign."

"Certainly not, Captain."

Kirk glanced back toward his First, who was pointing out certain issue in the documents he held to a nervous-looking Lieutenant Kalov, and then the captain glanced back at him. "Ensign, I am aware you come from a planet whose inhabitants' internal temperatures are similar to Mr. Spock's, and that you've had to make concessions aboard for the difference in climate. I'm aware that Starfleet provides cooler-blooded species and those who simply prefer to be warmer, with thermal underclothing to wear below their uniforms."

Chee'tha nodded; while his blood was not as cool as a Vulcan's, he did indeed prefer to be warm, even hot, rather than chilled.

Kirk shifted on his feet, an almost adorable gesture of nervousness. "I'm asking you because you would probably know better than I, Ensign. I'm looking…well, I'm trying to find a Christmas present for Mr. Spock, and I would prefer it to be something he would find practical," the human said shyly. "I am aware that he is constantly warring against the difference in temperature, though he rarely gives indication of it. Is there anything I could provide him with besides a heating vent under the library console on the Bridge, which would help?"

Chee'tha's affectionate heart wanted to hug the human for his obvious concern over his First Officer, and he smiled as his brain whirred through a few possibilities. "At the moment, I have no suggestions for you outside of a power-celled heat wrap to use at his desk, captain – but if you will give me some time to explore a few possibilities?"

"Of course!" Kirk agreed cheerfully. "I'd prefer it be something he can use outside his quarters, though – not a blanket, since he can change the temperature of his cabin if he needs to. I’ve already spoken to him about freezing himself out when I’m in there, but thank you for sending up the blankets, by the way. That was what opened my eyes to the problem, actually, so I owe you one."

Chee’tha smiled. "Aye, sir."

"If all else fails, I can put a heating vent under the library console…might even do that anyhow, it certainly can't hurt anything," Kirk mused aloud as they moved back toward the Commander and Kalov.

Chee'tha noticed the look of utter relief which filled his superior's face as Mr. Spock gravely thanked him for his clarification and put the padd away.

"All finished to your satisfaction, Science Officer?"

"Quite, Captain. Mr. Kalov was most informative."

Poor Kalov looked like he didn't take that as much of a compliment.

Kirk smiled. "We'll leave you to it then, gentlemen. Carry on. Oh, and Kalov?" the man added over his shoulder, pausing in the doorway.

"Sir?"

"If you're going to be storing illegal intoxicants like Romulan ale in temperatures this high, then at the very least take more care with them – rolling the bottles under a console, for instance, is highly detrimental to their taste when they're finally opened," the captain observed in mild amusement.

Kalov's eyes widened to enormous proportions, and then closed in mortified acknowledgement. "Message received, sir."

"Excellent. Have a good day, gentlemen."

* * *

Chee'tha, being the gregarious being he was, simply did not entirely comprehend the human characteristics of introversion and an entire lack of social interaction. Nevertheless, he was aware that the conditions existed in varying stages of severity in humans, though a certain degree of extroversion must be reached for a being to be considered for Starfleet service.

Therefore, he could be excused the one emotion which is constant to all species – curiosity – regarding the young Yeoman O'Brien. After his brief observance of the young human in Sickbay, Chee'tha had seen him appear in General Mess at regular intervals, but after looking around the human had always sat by himself. And though crewmen sometimes made an effort to sit with and talk to him, O'Brien did not appear to really take to any of those few who made the attempts. Apparently the kitten Patricia was the only being the young man really seemed to care for and interact with.

Perhaps, Chee'tha considered sensibly, his felinoid appearance and personality might make him the ideal intermediate between the young human's solitude and his entrance into a profitable and enjoyable social experience. Chee'tha simply could not bear to think of anyone, human or otherwise, being so lonely as the young man appeared to be. Even Mr. Spock, the most detached figure on the _Enterprise_ , had the captain and Dr. McCoy and a few select others with whom he interacted; and while such saturninity might be suitable for a Vulcan it could not be healthy nor beneficial to a human.

And so, one evening, Chee'tha waved Kalov and a few of the others from SS&R on to a table, and instead turned to take the open seat across from the silent, morose O'Brien.

The human glanced up at his approach, and Chee'tha saw with amusement the brief look of stupefaction that flickered across the young man's face at his appearance, before resignation and a façade of calm courtesy replaced it. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, for while O'Brien was reclusive he was not socially inept, and little else during the course of the evening.

But it had not been a failure, and therefore must be a small success, Chee'tha reasoned to himself, and decided to keep at it until the human appeared to emerge from his shell.

His first real chance to engage the human in conversation came almost Providentially; a water leak below decks. The mess was quickly contained, and not enough water had been lost to necessitate rationing as they were due to dock at Starbase Nine in two weeks, but a few of the junior officers' cabins had been soaked through, and O'Brien's had been one of them.

Apparently, Chee'tha perceived when he fielded the calls from that deck, Patricia (whom he could hear quite clearly yowling her displeasure in the background) no longer had a dry sandbox or blankets or bedding or anything else, which obviously distressed her very much. Kalov was ten seconds away from tearing the poor yeoman a good one, for they honestly did have far more important matters to think about – but after all, everyone was supposed to report requisitions to SS&R and O'Brien had only followed protocol.

Kalov's succinct "I'm not trucking kitty litter all the way down to Deck Thirty-four, thank you; if you want to then go for it" had been permission enough; Chee'tha boxed up some supplies (and dry bedding and clothes for good measure, for he had the idea that the human had paid little attention to anything of his own which had been drenched in the water leak) and headed into the bowels of the ship, the lowest of the lower decks.

The lower decks were situated much like any others aboard ship; two crewman per small cabin, usually a shared bathroom (tiny, but serviceable, containing little more than a toilet and sonic cleansing cubicle) sandwiched between every two cabins. Chee'tha was fortunate to be on Deck Fifteen, where the cabins were slightly larger and had enough room for a small couch in addition to the standard desk and computer monitor. Chee'tha's roommate, Lieutenant Bowers from Maintenance, worked gamma shift while Chee'tha worked alpha, and so they rarely interacted or saw each other beyond a cheerful greeting in passing – a fortunate arrangement, and one that seemed to work well in their lack of space.

Chee'tha wondered briefly who O'Brien's cabinmate was, and if that had any contribution on the man's lack of desire for friendly interaction. But it was rude to inquire about matters which did not pertain to him, and so he was all cheerful business when he requested entry to O'Brien's cabin.

The human answered the door, looking quite frazzled and slightly damp around the edges, dark blond hair stringing wetly down his forehead and two dripping towels held one in each hand.

"Oh, thank goodness," the poor human said mournfully, as a piercing wail sounded from behind him. "Please come in…be careful, it's still slippery."

Not only was the floor still slightly damp, but the whole cabin atmosphere was chilled and clammy. Chee'tha shivered before the door had even closed, and if the human's chattering teeth were any indication the man was just as wet and cold.

"Computer, increase temperature by five degrees, reduce humidity fifteen percent," he spoke into the computer control board as he passed, to set the bin of supplies on the desk.

"Wait…you can change the humidity?" O'Brien gaped at him, the words falling sudden and startling.

Chee'tha stared at him. "Yes, you have full atmospheric controls, within human safety parameters," he replied. "They can be voice-activated or manually, by your control system over here?"

The human blushed and looked down in embarrassment. "I was on the freighter _Organia_ , before the _Enterprise_ …we didn't have any of the fancy cabin controls," he muttered, scuffing a damp boot on the floor with a dull squeak. "Darnell was always hot and I didn't really care, so I always just let him mess with them…"

Chee'tha did not recognize the name, but it was obvious that this Darnell no longer resided in the room. "Darnell?" he asked gently, as he removed a packet of dry socks and underclothing from the bin.

O'Brien glanced up, eyes haunted. "Ashton Darnell…he was killed on M-113 by that salt-sucking creature (2). Captain Kirk never sent a replacement down here; I've been by myself for the last three months."

Chee'tha was no licensed psychiatrist, but he had studied human nature; this explained much. "And Patricia?" he asked quietly, bending down to extend a hand to the kitten, who was sitting in a hunched ball of dripping fur, growling deep within its throat to indicate its thorough displeasure with the amount of wet in the room.

"I got her at the last Starbase," O'Brien beamed, petting the kitten on its damp head. Patricia hissed at both of them, but the human only laughed. "Dr. McCoy said she'd be good company for me."

Chee'tha knew he liked the physician for a reason; the man was much wiser and more compassionate than one would think based upon his acerbic exterior.

"She is a lovely animal," Chee'tha ventured as he rummaged in the bin, smiling; and it was no prevarication, for the animal was quite pretty, if a bit damp. "Ah," he added in satisfaction, hauling out the small bundle.

"What's that?"

"Look what I have," Chee'tha murmured in a sing-song voice, crouching before the hunched ball of miserable kitten and holding out the article, which was a fleece blanket he had made certain to heat in the clothing dryer for a few moments and then zip into a thermal pouch before going below decks. "Yes, you like that, don't you?"

The kitten had stopped hissing, and was sniffing the blanket, pawing at it with mild interest. Chee'tha smiled and indicated the cloth to the surprised O'Brien. "Better get her dry first of all, or I have a feeling you'll not be sleeping well tonight."

"May not anyway, with the bed soaked like that," the human muttered, but took the blanket with a grateful look and firmly wrapped the mewing kitten in it.

"I can fix that."

"Really?"

The cranky squalling slowly faded into a series of contented purrs as the human firmly snuggled the animal into the fabric, and Chee'tha was pleased to see a genuine smile break shyly over the human's face.

"I thought you might need sheets and so on," Chee'tha added, bundling the wet bedclothes into an efficient knot with the experience and skill of a man who has done far too much of this in a short term aboard ship. "And there's a new sandbox in the bottom of that bin."

O'Brien was staring at him over the damp, purring kitten wrap. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know," he returned cheerfully. "But I wanted to."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

They both blinked at each other in silence for a moment, and then O'Brien smiled, somewhat shyly. "Thank you…what do you like to be called?"

"I have no surname; on Katarra one has a name all one's own, belonging to no other. It was a concept my father found difficult to grow accustomed to," he recounted, smiling.

"Your father?"

"Is human," he replied cheerfully.

O'Brien looked surprised, and interested. "How on earth did he meet your mother, then?"

"It was not on earth."

The human laughed for the first time, and Patricia growled a sleepy, stretching protest at being jostled out of a contented snooze. "It's an expression!"

"Ah. Well, my father was a Federation scientist, aboard the short-range research shuttle _Ptolemy_ from the exploratory vessel _Victoria_ , when an ion storm cast them adrift in Katarran space…"

* * *

Chee'tha was surprised, pleasantly so, to find that when Lieutenant Kalov called to ask him (none too gently) where he was and what the devil did he think he was doing, that almost two hours had passed while they put O'Brien's room to rights. He had learned quite a bit about the human, the most important fact of which being that the young man had been quite close to his cabin-mate Darnell, who had been one of the Security men killed on one of their first missions. O'Brien and Darnell had gone through the Academy together and had vied for the same ship in posting, had been delighted to be assigned the same cabin, and had been close friends.

It explained much; Chee'tha's kind heart had long since broken for the poor young human, who had been so entrenched in his loneliness and loss that he had not even thought of cultivating another friendship. He was quite aware that nothing could ever replace the kind of heart-loss this human held, but he was also aware that something had to in a way soothe the wound instead of scarring it over painfully.

Perhaps he could make it his mission to accomplish that end; there were certainly far less worthy investments for his time aboard, and if it might help the young human then it was certainly worth the effort.

Besides, Patricia seemed to like him well enough, though that might have something to do with the fact that he had brought her two packages of kitten treats in addition to a dry sandbox.

Katarrans did not believe in Fate, though they had their own ideals about a Greater Power governing the workings of the universe, ensuring the galaxies did not collide and the universes not spin out of control – but he began to rethink that skepticism of human concepts such as karma and Fate when he finally drew his name for the captain's gift exchange and found that he had drawn the name of Lieutenant Ardia Shomari, might the Great One give her soul peace. In the absence of the Lieutenant for the exchange, he did some investigating, and found that Yeoman O'Brien had not entered the exchange and therefore had no recipient nor was he a recipient.

Captain Kirk had taken his request to adopt O'Brien as his recipient in lieu of Shomari with a strange look, but had agreed without asking questions.

Granted, the fact that Chee'tha had researched and finally come up with a store on Starbase Nine which sold ultra-light thermal gloves (in varying skin tones which blended perfectly with the wearer's skin, and with detachable fingertips) probably would have gotten him anything he wanted at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) No joke, Kirk's insisting he wanted the meatloaf to at least look like turkey did really take place in Charlie X.  
> (2) The Man Trap


	9. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight_ **

Captain James Tiberius Kirk made a point of not having favorites among his crew. Prejudices (both favorable and unfavorable), bigotry, favoritism, and segregation were abhorrent to him, and to his view of their reasons for being out amongst the stars and the worlds waiting to be explored and learned from. Bigotry had no place in Starfleet, and xenophobia or any other type of racial prejudice was swiftly and severely dealt with when it surfaced among his crew. He attempted to set the example for them, in treating each crew member with the utmost respect and not playing favorites among those with whom he interacted the most.

Well, for the most part. It was basically common knowledge that Lieutenant-Commander Spock could pretty much get away with murder and never get more than a sharp look for it, but then again everyone else aboard was so terrified of the Vulcan that who was going to call the captain on a bit of favoritism where the First Officer was concerned? The majority of the crew were of the opinion that since the captain was the only person aboard who didn't want to curl up in a fetal position and bawl when being glared at by a Vulcan, he could have his favorite and _welcome_.

But Kirk abhorred prejudices in all their forms, one reason why he had scored so highly on the placement tests for the Command track at the Academy, and so he remained highly involved with the medical staff of the _Enterprise_ for the sole purpose of knowing the heartbeat of his crew. Without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality, the physicians and psychiatrists employed in the Medical division of the _Enterprise_ were able to let him know of any potential problems which might develop into situations that would harm working relations aboard between crewmen. Such had not been necessary yet, months into their mission, but Kirk held weekly meetings with his medical staff just the same, making certain there was nothing he needed to know about happening amongst his crew and their morale.

And, in turn, this gave McCoy and his people a better chance to study the health and well-being of their captain and command staff, without the overt lack of tact that came along with a mandatory physical or psych scan.

It was an amicable arrangement, and one that worked well for the first several months of their mission. Then came the incident with the Huraon pirates, and the seven casualties that resulted – four injuries, three deaths.

And Captain Kirk was having to do his first funeral aboard ship.

Gary Mitchell and Elizabeth Dehner he had buried on Delta Vega, and Lee Kelso's body had been shipped back to his family on Terra after the man's unfortunate demise, as Kelso had requested in his final will and testament. Kirk had had to do a few memorial services before. Ashton Darnell, Nathan Green, and Hovin Sturgeon had all been buried on the planet M-113 after being killed by the salt-craving creature that had invaded the ship a few weeks before Thanksgiving; but until now, they had never had to do a funeral while traveling in space, with bodies and caskets and burial among the stars and all the ‘Fleet circumstance that went along with it.

Besides Lieutenant Shomari, Nurse Tanya Bodine and Yeoman Azhar Mu'adh had also been killed, the latter by smoke inhalation in the section of the ship which had caught fire and the young nurse in trying to drag him out of the Jefferies tube where he had collapsed. She had been unable to get them out of the danger zone before succumbing, and due to them both being unconscious none of the others had even known they were in one of the cross-corridors before it was too late.

There would be three closed caskets, because no medical team could repair the kind of damage done to Shomari's broken body and the others had been pretty badly burned before the fire had been put out, although the medical report showed they had already succumbed to smoke long before the fire reached them. This knowledge, however, was but a small comfort to their shipmates. Funerals were never easy or pleasant things to participate in, and this kind was ten times worse.

None of the three had been older than twenty-five.

Kirk had dismissed his medical team a few minutes previous, and remained lost in thought about the upcoming services the following morning – until he realized that one person had remained behind.

"Doctor Noel?" he inquired coolly, looking at the woman who had remained near the door, arms folded, just studying him closely. Like all his crew, he was capable of putting names with faces even though he might not be entirely familiar with the personnel. "May I help you?"

"In all seriousness, I believe that should be my line, sir," the young psychiatrist replied with gentleness. This was the first time Kirk had even seen Noel up close beyond an occasional medical staff meeting, much less spoken directly to her, but he had heard the rumors about how much McCoy liked her and as such, what kind of personality she must have.

"I don't follow you." He was about to dismiss the woman but was halted by the pointed look he found himself impaled upon a moment later.

"I am quite sure you do, Captain."

"Well, I am _not_. Suppose you explain it to me, then," he snapped curtly, glaring down at the padd upon which he'd been trying to extricate some words of comfort from the jumble of his thoughts, to be of use to the friends of the deceased tomorrow.

Noel returned and took the chair next to his, startling him into edging his own away a few inches. Amused, she only looked at him until he could no longer meet her compassionate eyes and returned to staring at the padd before him.

"Death is something you're going to see a lot more of during the next five years, Captain," she said quietly. "And I wish I could tell you it will get easier to do these services for the people we lose." Kirk glanced at her from the corner of his eye, face tense with care lines, and she looked directly into his eyes. "But it won't."

"I am aware of that," he muttered.

"And if it ever _does_ , that's when you should start worrying about your ability to command these people, Captain."

His head jerked up in surprise, and Noel smiled, patting his arm in one brief, gentle gesture before rising from her chair. "Until then, it's a burden of command – and one you cannot give to someone else," she said, looking down at the young captain. "You may share it, but in the end you must shoulder the majority of it the best you know how."

"Not very therapeutic words from a ship's psychiatrist, Doctor," the man returned, though the tense lines that creased his features had softened slightly.

"I'm here to help heal the mind, Captain, not the heart," she replied matter-of-factly. "And the truth, while it is painful, I believe is what you want to hear, isn't it? Would you rather I give you the usual platitudes, tell you 'it will get better,' when we both know it will not – had _better_ not, or else you will have lost that love for your people which makes you the captain you are?"

Kirk shook his head, some amused portion of his mind realizing that this woman was not as annoying as he had thought her to be by reputation; underneath that business-like, opinionated exterior was a highly intelligent being and a darn good shrink. "No, I would not, Doctor. Your advice is…noted."

She didn't quite roll her eyes. "You don't have to dismiss me, Captain; I'm going," she snorted, amused, and started for the exit to the briefing room.

Kirk watched her go, and just before the doors closed called a quiet "Thank you, Doctor," after her.

Noel paused, shot him an incredulous look over her shoulder, and then gave him a curt nod before striding off down the corridor.

He found himself smiling oddly at the closed doors, and a moment later returned to his work, the words coming more easily to him now for some inexplicable reason. By the time his not-worried-because-that-is-an-emotion Vulcan came by to check on him, he was surprised to discover that two hours had passed, and that his head was clearer than it had been for days.

The funeral wasn't going to be easy, but that was a good thing – because if it ever got easy for him to dismiss the deaths of his people, then that was the day he should be frightened enough to resign his Starfleet commission.

* * *

The funeral was _not_ easy. A somewhat mystified First Officer and Chief Medical Officer finally found their young captain panicking in a deserted briefing room fifteen minutes before the service was to begin, looking as if he were only three shallow breaths away from hyperventilating or else going to be physically ill. Between the two, however, they were able to calm him enough that nothing appeared amiss when he entered the ship's chapel fourteen minutes later.

Kirk himself, once he had calmed enough to have a clear head regarding the proceedings, found himself more concerned with the mental state of his crew, especially his CMO and Chief Engineer, as the service commenced. Lieutenant Shomari had been one of Scott's best engineers and a years-long protégé, and he knew the man had loved her like a daughter. Yeoman Mu'adh had been a comfortable, genial young man, who was eager to do even the most menial tasks in Maintenance due to a simple love of being in space in any capacity. Nurse Bodine had only been aboard for three months, a new transfer from their last Starbase, and as such had not had time to make many connections aboard; but she had died trying to save another life, and that alone was enough to make her beloved by everyone aboard. Whatever his faults, Leonard McCoy took life – every life – so seriously that the soft-hearted physician wouldn't even kill an insect if it stung him; the loss of such a brave nurse was going to strike him hard, if it had not already, and Kirk knew it well.

The atmosphere in the small, crowded chapel was smothering; most were there grieving, just a few attending to see how their new captain would conduct a funeral. The rest of those who were unable to attend had the option of listening by shipwide broadcast, and most did so.

Hands clenched, Kirk approached the podium with all the confidence of a first-trimester cadet on his first review. He'd prepared the traditional service, using the form Starfleet had set in place for such things to not exclude any religious or cultural variations in final rites, had carefully ensured that it was well-put and kind and compassionate and full of the usual cliches regarding this brave new frontier and the sacrifices necessary to ensure their endeavors continued.

And now, as Kirk looked up from the documents in his hand to the faces of his fresh, new crew, who had just had such a harsh reminder of the danger of their profession and yet still continued on despite that rude awakening; saw the grief and the anger and the hurt and the despair on many, and the determination and love on others – something in his mind suddenly fell into position, clicked like the perfect snap of tumblers falling into place on a combination lock.

He paused, and then turned to his First Officer, who was seated just behind and to the right of him. Spock's eyebrow inclined as he was handed the captain's prepared note-padd, but said nothing, only tilted his head ever so slightly in encouragement.

That was all he needed.

"As you can see, I've thrown out the speech I had prepared for today," he spoke quietly, indicating the discarded notes amid the murmur which rippled through the crowd. "Because, you know something? Starfleet's pre-planned speeches for any occasion are built to include every culture, every set of beliefs, every creed, every religion, every being." Kirk looked around the room, making eye contact with those who looked the most numb. "And for that very reason, they are far too… _impersonal,_ to be sufficient tributes for such incredible people as Lieutenant Shomari, Yeoman Mu'adh, and Nurse Bodine."

A ripple of assent and approval swept the crowd. Taking heart from the favorable reaction, the captain smiled briefly. "No doubt Starfleet will have something to say to me about bending regulation today…but then that's nothing new, is it?"

There was a smattering of chuckles. Kirk continued, "These brave, amazing people deserve better than the rote of a generalized, multipurpose speech. And," he added, eyes sweeping the crowd and instantly holding them with the gaze that could arrest the attention of an entire ambassadorial party, "so do you, as the family of these courageous people.

"Yes, I said _family_ ," the captain continued sharply, as a trickle of mutters moved across the room, "and I meant the word; because for the next five years, gentlemen, this is your family – _our_ family – and we will act and react accordingly. When couples come together, we will all rejoice with them; when promotions come to those who deserve them, we will all congratulate those chosen; when holidays come around, we will all share in them despite cultural or religious diversity. And," he added, his tone indicating the gravity of the situation with a note of heartfelt sadness, "when death comes to those who least deserve it, we will grieve together for and in their loss."

Kirk looked out over the crowd, letting his gaze rest on Lisa West, who was silently crying, before moving on to Chief Engineer Scott, who looked like he wanted to. "Lieutenant Ardia Shomari," he said. "She was an amazing engineer; one of the brightest and best the Academy had to offer, and believe me – I asked for only that, for this ship." The captain's eyes lit up with pride. "Shomari was one of those people that could definitely take on responsibility beyond her years, spit in the face of stress that would make most of us go cry in a corner – and then turn around and out-think half the Engineering crew in a quarter of the time."

He saw Scott grin wryly and shake his head in agreement, and returned the smile. "She was a brave woman," he continued. "I mean, who else would dare to get between Mr. Scott and his precious engines and sass him back if necessary, like she could?" Watery laughter followed his words, and a few knowing glances traded between Engineering personnel.

Kirk's voice suddenly grew older, sadder. "Lieutenant Shomari saved two trapped engineers and a nurse the day she died, gentlemen – risking her own life in the process. And that," he added quietly, "is the true definition of heroism. Starfleet likes to promote the Federation as a glorious endeavor, full of talented and brilliant people who are ready to pay the ultimate sacrifice in the name of science – but living, and dying, that creed is a far different thing, and not everyone does so."

The young captain took a moment to let the words sink in, and also to bolster his faltering confidence; how could he ever say anything which would make this in any way easier for his grieving crew? He swallowed, silent for a moment, and then resolutely continued, wishing Spock was sitting in front of him instead of behind him so that he could see the Vulcan's face. "Whether you were a co-worker of Shomari's, a subordinate, a friend, an acquaintance, or if you didn't know her at all – whoever you are, remember her, and take heed of her example, because the galaxy needs more people who exemplify the ideals which humanity holds to be the most sacred.

"Tanya Bodine was one of our newest crewmen." Kirk flicked a glance at his Chief Medical Officer's drawn face, and tried to keep his voice steady. "In a very short time, she became known for her remarkable, almost inhuman, patience with certain more… _volatile_ members of our medical staff." Another smattering of laughs greeted that pronouncement, much louder than before, and he saw Christine Chapel giggling through her tears at McCoy's indignant glare. "She had made few friends aboard in these three months, but those who knew her recognized the gifts which made her such an incredible care-giver; and that same spirit of selflessness, of…compassion, and the desire to heal…" he paused, and then continued gently, "…these gifts are also what unfortunately cost her her life in the line of duty, trying to save an unconscious crewman.

"Which brings us to Yeoman Mu'adh. I didn't know Mu'adh personally, due to our schedules rarely interacting, and probably most of you did not as well – but on the one occasion I met him, he was one of the most pleasant people I've ever had the good fortune to meet." Kirk's expression softened in remembrance. "I was performing a monthly inspection below decks, and basically appropriated him as my guide for sections 521 and 522. He was good enough to explain the mechanics of the carbon dioxide recycling units to me without making me look more clueless than I really was." Brief chuckling punctuated his rueful smile.

"All three of these wonderful people will be missed. By you, by me, by their superiors, their subordinates, their friends, and their families." Kirk took a deep breath and slowly let it out, hands clenched on the sides of the podium. "I have been asked before, why I made it a point to know each crewman by name, and usually by face to match, before I assumed command of the _Enterprise_. This, gentlemen," and his gaze swept the room with intense slowness, making eye contact with as many as he could, " _this_ is why.

"I cannot promise your families any more than I can promise you, that you will be safe out here, especially aboard this particular ship. I cannot give you any guarantees that tomorrow we won't go up in the biggest explosion this quadrant has ever seen.

“I can't tell you that things won't always be as hard as they are right now. But I _can_ promise you that you will not be forgotten. You will not be lost on my ship, unknown and unhonored. You will not die under my command, and I be forced to discover your name only from the ship's roster. You will not be unwept, unhonored, or unsung – not on the _Enterprise_."

Absolute silence, so still that he could hear the hum of the warp engines at the other end of the ship.

He forged onward, earnestness lending a sincere intensity to his words. "Anyone who serves aboard this ship is essential to this crew. From the greenest ensign straight out of the Academy, to the most intelligent scientist or engineer, all the way to the command staff – each of us is a crucial component of the _Enterprise_." He closed his eyes for a brief instant, reopening them when he was fully in control of his voice. "I will not forget Lieutenant Shomari, Nurse Bodine, and Yeoman Mu'adh, for giving their lives to save a portion of my ship and this crew. They _will_ be remembered, for I owe them that much and more."

Lifting his head, he swept the somber room once more with his gaze, looking his incredible crew squarely in the eyes across the board. "See that you do the same, and their sacrifices will not be in vain." He stepped back, head bowed for a few moments out of respect. "Dismissed."

The crew milled about for a few moments, murmurs of sympathy and idle remembrances floating about the small chapel, before the crowd began to thin. Funerals and memorials aboard ship could never be prolonged affairs, due to the workings of the ship, but neither was it appropriate to simply rush away, no matter how badly the mentally-drained captain wished to do so.

McCoy gave him a quick, rather awkward one-armed hug and Scott wordlessly shook his hand before they made a rapid exit together, and he translated that to mean at least approval; he could only hope he had helped a little. He was aware that Spock had been hovering nearby the entire time he spoke with those who approached after the service, and vowed to make it up to his loyal Vulcan later, somehow; he didn't know what he would have done without the steady, comforting presence always remaining near the edges of his awareness.

He was somewhat surprised, and a little wary, to see Dr. Noel linger for just a second behind the rest of the medical staff as they filed out. She flicked him a curt nod and smile of approval before vanishing along with the rest of the science blues into the corridors of the ship.

* * *

"Captain. _Captain_."

He did not realize he'd slumped forward at his desk until a hand on his shoulder gently shook him from sleep. Rubbing the sandy cobwebs of drowsiness from his eyes with both hands, he jolted upright in his chair, alert on the instant despite the fact that his weary vision seemed to have no desire to cooperate.

"What, what is it? Ship?"

"The _Enterprise_ is in no danger, Captain," was the Vulcan's quick response, well knowing and deciphering the first thoughts to emerge from the tired mind.

"Oh." He slumped back in the chair, noting with dismay that he had not even made it through half the paperwork he'd set out to do – and he still had to compose those personal condolences to the families of his deceased crew. He wasn't about to just send them the typical form letter found in every captain's file. Stifling a yawn, he squinted up at his First. "What is it, then?"

Spock looked decidedly twitchy, which had to be an indication of some sort of conspiracy. Kirk was instantly on the alert, and the Vulcan's words only heightened his suspicions. "It has been…brought to my attention, Captain, that you are apparently unaware of Starfleet Regulation 1097.5a, sub-paragraph b."

Well, he wouldn't argue that point, as he'd no clue what Spock was going on about, even if he hadn't just woken up. "Okay, I'll bite – what, precisely, does Regulation 1097.5a, sub-paragraph b state, Mr. Spock?" he asked, looking impertinently up at his impassive First.

"In the event of extenuating mental and/or physical strain upon the commanding officer of a vessel, the writing and filing of any and all reports below a level one security clearance may be delegated to an officer of lesser rank, chosen by the captain of said vessel."

His brain took a minute to process that, and then he blinked down at the stack of paperwork that still awaited him. "…You're saying I can hand this batch of stuff off to you?"

"Affirmative. I would consider falling asleep at one's desk to be 'extenuating mental and/or physical strain'…and, for the official record, so would Dr. McCoy."

"You two are the sneakiest pair of…" he searched for a suitable word that didn't sound like something an adolescent would use but couldn't find an equivalent, "…of _frenemies_ I've ever seen," he finished with a rueful laugh, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders for the first time all day.

He also remained somewhat suspicious that there was actually any such regulation, because he wouldn’t put it past Spock to completely make it up…but surely not.

Dark brown eyes blinked innocently. No, surely not.

"Frenemies, sir?"

"I'm pretty sure your knowledge of etymology can extrapolate the meaning, Science Officer." He smiled up at the nod of acknowledgement. "But I don't want to shove all this off on you; how about a fifty-fifty split?"

"I would instead suggest we simply begin, as I will most likely work at a more rapid pace than you and therefore would finish my 'fifty' before you."

"Whatever, whatever. You have a deal, Mr. Spock. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable."

The Vulcan nodded and seated himself across the desk. They had worked for several minutes in silence when Kirk's wide yawn broke the mood. Seeing the raised eyebrow he got, he blushed slightly. "It's been a long week," he offered.

"To be precise, it will have been exactly one hundred sixty-eight hours; the same number as any other, Captain."

"Yes, yes." Kirk waved a hand of dismissal as he scrawled his initials across the bottom of a fuel requisition. "I mean it _seems_ longer to those of us poor unfortunates who don't possess an internal _chronometer_ , Mr. Spock. By the way, has Scotty been asking you about department check-ups in preparation for our run along the neutral zone?"

"He has," the Vulcan agreed, typing vigorously on his padd with a speed Kirk envied. "Science Labs Three and Four are in the midst of experiments which will require my nearly-constant monitoring for the next three days' alpha shift; after that I am entirely at your and the Chief's disposal."

"We'll plan for early next week then, give you an extra day in case of unforeseen variables," he replied, handing over a report which required Spock's signature as well as his own. "The crew seem to be really getting into the spirit of the upcoming holidays," he remarked.

"Indeed. I was accosted three times by Lieutenant Uhura today, requesting my input in preparations for the Winter Holiday party."

Kirk paused mid-signature and looked up incredulously. "What for?"

"She is attempting to gather a portion of the crew to provide entertainment of the musical variety during the evening."

"What, you don't want to play _Blue Christmas_ or something equally _illogical_ on your lyrette in front of the entire crew?" the captain teased.

"On the contrary," Spock responded dryly, handing back the padd. "I agreed."

Kirk's stylus squeaked loudly. "Really?"

"Indeed."

"Not that I'm not delighted, Spock, but…why?"

"I believe the purpose of your permitting such gatherings is to foster a spirit of unity, sir, is it not? To refuse would be detrimental to such a goal."

"Well…yes, but no one's expecting you to do anything of the kind, so it would hardly be detrimental for you to decline," Kirk pointed out gently. "Are you quite sure you don't mind doing it?"

"Quite," was the reassurance, and the captain beamed.

"Well, that's great! Oh, here, you have to sign off on this requisition for extra manpower to be diverted to Communications for the next three weeks. What are you going to be playing, or have you decided?"

"The extra man-hours and power, for what purpose? And I have decided."

"Personal communications, holiday wishes to friends and family stationed elsewhere, etc. Each crewman gets one extra live visual communiqué and several recorded verbal ones instead of the usual monthly allotment. So, what is it?"

"I see." The Vulcan made a neat series of initials on the pages and then signed the bottom. "I shall be accompanying the Lieutenant's singing the carol _Do You Hear What I Hear_. Also I will be performing an adaptive version of an Earth carol, the title of which I believe is _I Wonder As I Wander_."

Kirk blinked and absently nibbled the end of his stylus, trying to recall the last. "I don't know if I've ever heard that one," he finally said, brows knitted. "Old-Earth?"

"Affirmative. From your early twentieth century, the area of the United States which is called Appalachia, I believe. It is a somewhat obscure carol; Dr. McCoy was of use in aiding me to locate a suitable version to adapt for the lyrette."

"Mm. Ugh, my eyes hurt," Kirk grunted, rubbing them vigorously after signing yet another requisition for additional allotments for food experimentation for the holiday season. Finally he looked blearily at his First. "Why the obscure Christmas carol, just out of curiosity?"

Spock studiously examined his signature for apparent flaws before carefully tracing the letters again.

Kirk perked up immediately. "Come on, spill it, Spock. Oh, before I forget, did Lieutenant Wilkerson from Xenobotany finally get hold of you earlier about the fertilizer incident?"

"He did, and the incident has been neutralized. Quite literally," his First added, shaking his head in apparent disgust with human clumsiness.

"Good. Now, don't try to misdirect me, Mr. Spock. What's with the obscure old Appalachian carol?"

Spock squirmed. Actually squirmed; Kirk couldn't believe it, his immaculately proper First Officer was actually _fidgeting_.

"Well?"

"…You will recall my program written for what the crew is now commonly calling 'The Captain's Gift Exchange'?"

"Yes…?"

"Apparently my script was not as flawless as I had thought; the goal of it was to pair up two beings aboard, based upon their lack of interaction and statistical preferences regarding companions."

"In short, to pair up the most unlikely people, got it. What's that got to do with your sudden interest in ancient Appalachia?"

Spock clearly winced. "My generated script, as you say, was simply to pair up two extremely unlikely people. I believe I should have added a subroutine which would prevent the program from pairing two people who, though highly incompatible, already knew each other aboard."

Kirk stared at him. "You mean…there's a possibility two people who hate each other on this ship could get paired up?"

"The odds are astronomically against such a possibility, sir, as there are very few beings aboard who, as you say, hate each other."

"Then…"

A tiny sigh fluttered past thinly pressed lips. "The script matched my name with that of…Nurse Chapel, Captain."

Kirk knew his eyes had to be popping out of his head, judging from Spock's expression, braced as the Vulcan was for the merriment which was sure to ensue. The captain had just enough self-control and respect for his poor friend to not burst outright into laughter, though he could not hide the silent quivers of amusement which shook his signature into illegibility on the padd before him.

Spock did _not_ look amused.

"Spock, you can only blame yourself," he managed after a moment of silent cackling. "It was your program, after all."

"I am aware of that piece of information, thank you, sir."

"And you do sarcasm about as well as script programming, apparently," he needled back, grinning outright at the Vulcan's discomfiture. "Well, well, that's going to be awkward."

"I shall have resolved the other matter before the deadline, you may be certain of that, Captain," was the determined reply.

Kirk winced, feeling bad for poor Christine, but knew it was better that way. "I wish you luck then, Mr. Spock. But now to get back to my original inquiry – what does that have to do with this unusual carol?"

"According to Dr. McCoy, it is…her favorite," Spock finally muttered gracelessly, scrawling his initials on a medical report with more force than was warranted; the padd beeped warningly.

He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, in an effort to not embarrass his poor First by something so ridiculously human as going "Awwww" or otherwise.

"A very kind gesture, Mr. Spock," he settled for saying solemnly, though his eyes gave him away he well knew.

Spock's slanted glare was answer enough, and he hastily diverted his attention to the remaining stack of paperwork.

"That reminds me," he ventured to break the icy silence with a neutralizing gesture a moment later, after he had finished three more reports. "I haven't drawn my person yet."

Spock ignored him, only scooted the remaining padds over to the Vulcan side of the desk and began ferociously attacking them with his inexorable initials. Silently venting a sigh, as it had indeed been a long day, Kirk raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing, only turned to his computer monitor, entered the correct subfolder and applied the access codes.

A small paper was spit out onto his desk, which he then examined.

He felt the blood drain from his face, and knew his reaction had to be visible when Spock had dropped the padd and stylus and was halfway around the desk before he'd even lowered his hand from his face.

Thin fingers plucked the paper from his icy fingers. He saw Spock's eyes darken as the Vulcan read the name, and then he lowered his face into his hands as the harshness of reality struck him like a physical blow to the stomach, sickening and painful.

"What were the odds," he whispered brokenly, and felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder as the paper was placed on the table.

Four hundred and twenty-nine people aboard now, but when Spock had written the script there had been four hundred thirty-two.

And the captain had been the one to draw the name Yeoman Azhar Mu'adh.


	10. Chapter Nine

**_Chapter Nine_ **

Everyone in Starfleet knew that being in the Security division of Ops was the most dangerous job in the 'Fleet.

Everyone also knew that being in Security aboard the _Enterprise_ as opposed to any other starship was exponentially more dangerous, as the _Enterprise_ seemed to be a trouble magnet itself and was also given the most dangerous missions, due to its standing as being the flagship of the 'Fleet.

With the glamor came the danger, and it was no secret that wearing a red uniform on a landing party meant you either had to be extremely careful or extremely lucky, and only then about half the time might you escape unscathed. Many officers couldn't cut it, after watching their fellows be killed in their duty on different occasions, and transferred to Maintenance or other departments within Ops – and some transferred in, either from a misplaced sense of self-confidence and swagger, or else from a genuine desire to serve and protect.

Matt Matthews was one of the latter. He'd briefly considered a career as a law enforcer or a firefighter, like many children did, until one day in grade school his class had been taken to the California shipyards to tour the starship _Constellation_ , which was being constructed there. He fell in love with the stars, and while many of his classmates declared their intentions to be starship captains someday, he fixated upon the young man who was giving them their tour – a Security officer, who upon noticing his rapt attention spent his lunch hour answering questions about his last tour of duty aboard the _Republic_ , an exploratory science vessel currently in orbit around Mars, waiting its turn for drydock.

Matthews never did get the nondescript young man's name, but the officer became his hero that day, and from that moment he never wanted to do anything but protect those people who were brave enough to chart and discover the galaxy. Matthews was intelligent enough, though not particularly apt in physics or command material – and so his choice of track was fortuitous enough that he blew through the Academy at a pace that many cadets envied.

The _Enterprise_ was his first assignment, and he had never been so thrilled in all his life as he was when he got the word that Kirk had selected him based upon the wording of his application alone. Where many aspiring, awestruck cadets were foolish enough to compose long essays about the allure and beauty of the stars, the need for humanity to advance, to conquer this final frontier, to dare the outrageous and dream the impossible, Matthews had instead put only two lines in his _Reason_ _for Application to_ Enterprise _, Security Division_ blank.

 _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_.

Underneath the quote he had simply written, _Someone has to, and I'd be honored to_.

Soon-to-be Captain James T. Kirk had chosen him on the spot, the first around which the man began to build an elite Security force for this dangerous five-year mission, and he had for several months now been more grateful than he could ever say to have had this time on the _Enterprise_. It hadn't even been a year, and Matthews knew he could die happy having had these few months. He loved this ship, he loved his job of protecting the ship's incredibly unusual command team, and he wouldn't have traded it for the safest job in Starfleet.

It didn't mean he _always_ loved every part of his job, though, especially when it came to one Captain James T. Kirk.

Kirk was a man who got his own way, no matter what anyone (including Starfleet) had to say about it. Without ever blatantly breaking regulations, only bending them somewhat, the man accomplished more than any captain ever had before him, and horrified half his superiors and impressed the other half in doing so. Mr. Spock's eyebrows were in a continual state of incredulity for the first few months of their mission, and Security Chief Giotto nearly went into conniptions every time the captain insisted upon beaming down to a planet himself, regulations be hanged.

Everyone knew the traditional approach to an away mission was for the captain to remain safely on board and lead from a distance; Kirk broke that image his second week aboard and no one could ever pick up the pieces thereafter. Matthews wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that future years would see a new set of rules on the books, courtesy of Captain Kirk's indomitable stubbornness and intrepidity.

But for now, it made Security's job a difficult one, for the man really didn't care if enough security forces beamed down with him and on more than one shore leave managed to give his unofficial bodyguards the slip in the most efficient and expert way of a man who knows when he's being shadowed and isn't having any of it. Kirk also had the unique-to-him habit of caring far too much for his Security men, in Matthews's opinion – the captain's job was to remain safe, to let Security protect him at the cost of their lives if necessary, and Kirk would throw himself into danger to save one of his crew without a second, more rational, thought. It was an unspoken battle waged between two equally stubborn factions, and while on the surface the idea was highly amusing, when it came down to truly dangerous situations it was no laughing matter, the struggle between the captain and his men.

This away mission was one such situation.

Kirk, First Officer Spock, and Lieutenant Barlow from Geological Studies had been sent down to this planet he-couldn't-remember-the-name-but-it-needed-to-buy-a-vowel to survey a dilithium deposit discovered there by the Federation colonists stationed for the past five months. The natives of the area lived peacefully with the colonists. They had not been First Contact-ready a year before, but the Klingons had edged the Federation out over the possible dilithium and so Federation authorities had waived the Primary Directive in order to keep the Klingon Empire from landing a contract with the natives.

Matthews refused to get involved in politics or discussions of politics and unethical actions or corruption therein, but he couldn't help but wonder what the purpose was in having a Prime Directive if you were just going to chuck it out the airlock when an opportunity arose to financially further yourself.

But anyway, this mission had begun well enough. The trio of officers, accompanied by himself, Ensign Rowland, and Lieutenant Cho from Security, had beamed down to examine the dilithium and found it as valuable a deposit as they had been led to believe. After a lengthy discussion between the natives and the Federation colonists with their group, they had retired to the natives' nearest city, a series of brick or stone structures and paved streets of amazing engineering design, given their relative lack of technology.

The Enterprise group were in the middle of City Hall, finalizing the treaty agreement, when the ever-suspicious Lieutenant Cho (she was an amazing Security officer, no doubt about that from either Matthews or Giotto) suddenly decided to take readings on her tricorder from their location, muttering something about having a bad feeling about the whole thing.

As it turned out, the woman was correct; she picked up life-signs on the tricorder, fast converging on their location from two of the five underground emergency entrances/exits they had been shown in their tour of the buildings.

And they were Klingon life-signs.

Cho took her career in her hands and shoved her tricorder in front of Mr. Spock's nose while the captain was clarifying a detail with the city's Chief of Council. Matthews, at a quick signal from the suddenly alert Lieutenant Barlow, had snapped open his communicator to call for an emergency beam-out, only to find that there was some kind of jamming field blocking their transmissions; nothing, not even interference, could he raise on the device. Rowland had no luck with his own communicator, and they could only hope the phasers hadn't been deactivated by the jamming field.

Spock had only just enough time to jerk the surprised captain behind him and Barlow before the emergency doors flew open and the room seemed to be swarming with grinning, armed Klingons.

"Get the Captain and Mr. Spock out of here, V formation, any exit you can find! Move!" Cho shouted over the melee that erupted, the colonists staring about them in consternation, none of them having been privy to the natives' obvious subterfuge. None of them except the three Security officers were armed, as was regulation when visiting a peaceful society.

Matthews again wondered at the idiocy of some Starfleet regulations, as he whipped out his phaser and took out a Klingon whose disrupter was aimed at Commander Spock's head.

The captain had already discovered the communicators were not working and was being shoved protesting by Rowland and Barlow toward Exit Three; Matthews turned his attention to Commander Spock, who had paused long enough to snatch up the unfinished treaty agreement and stuff it into his shirt before pelting after the retreating _Enterprise_ party.

A disrupter blast nearly took Matthews's ear off as he moved backward, keeping his front toward the chaos erupting in the room and taking down as many as he could while they retreated. Apparently the natives were not armed with Klingon weapons, but they were fairly swarming the place and as such were highly efficient shields for the Klingons. He understood enough basic Klingon to hear that they were after the captain of the Federation's prize ship himself, not the rest of them, and he figured they'd paid the natives a stiff price to hand Kirk over on a silver platter. Hopefully the colonists had taken that new knowledge and run, _literally_ , with it – far away from the war zone being created inside the Hall.

They were very near the exit now. Kirk and Rowland were already nearly inside, and he felt a sudden presence as Cho moved into position beside him, covering their retreat. The woman was a holy terror with a phaser, and everyone in Security knew it – and now he was glad for it and for her cold single-mindedness of duty.

A sudden shout from behind them, and he turned just in time to see Lieutenant Barlow take a disrupter blast to the chest and disintegrate, still screaming.

Good thing he had learned in Security training to control his gag reflex. From his peripheral he saw Cho's lips tighten even as she took out the Klingon who had fired, hidden behind a wildly-grinning native. They were nearly at the entrance now, Cho just behind and left of him, both of them keeping their opponents back by using a wide heavy stun beam, but it wouldn't last forever – they had to run.

Matthews was just beginning to think things couldn't get much worse, when it happened.

Few things were scarier than knowing you failed at your job, but one of the scariest was knowing that the person suffering for it was someone you cared about dearly.

They didn't even have warning; the disrupter beam just shot from out of nowhere up above them – a sniper, he realized when it was far too late – and sliced just past Cho's head, leaving the smell of ozone in its path, and continued on to its target.

Commander Spock took one stumbling step, a hand against his face, and then fell, partly through the opening to the tunnels wherein lay their escape.

Beside him, Cho stiffened, swearing, and whipped around to fire only once. The sniper fell silently off the stone ledge where he had lain, but the damage had been done.

But…disruptors disintegrated their victims, and Spock was still moving, trying to stagger back to his feet…that was good, right?

"Spock!"

Oh _fantastic_ , Kirk had seen everything.

"Get him in that tunnel, Matthews!" Cho snapped over the chaos that drew nearer, part of which was taking place in the tunnel behind them; he definitely didn't envy Rowland trying to prevent a panic attack.

Swooping down, he more dragged than helped the First into a sitting position, then hauled the Vulcan to his feet. He'd heard they had denser bone and muscle mass than humans, and that was definitely accurate; the XO weighed a fair ton and if he went down for good there was no way Matthews would be able to carry him. "Sir, can you move?"

"Adequately, Ensign," was the mutter he received in return, but then they shifted from shadow into light and he got a good look at the Commander's face.

He sucked in a breath and prayed it either wasn't as bad as it looked, or that McCoy was one heck of a good surgeon. The blast had not actually touched the Vulcan, had ricocheted off the stone wall just in front of him, but the radiation burns from a disrupter blast were far more horrible than those from a 'Fleet regulation phaser.

"I am, however, entirely blind at the moment; you will be forced to either leave me here or guide me through the tunnels, Mr. Matthews." The words were so ridiculously calm and unconcerned Matthews wanted to cuff the gentle Vulcan upside the head.

"Captain Kirk would kill me if I even thought about it, which I never would," he retorted, pulling the Vulcan's arm over his shoulder, trying to avoid skin contact even in his haste. "You'll forgive me for a lack of gentleness, I hope, sir?"

"Down!" Cho shrieked from behind him, and he instantly threw them both to the floor and to the left. The sear of another disrupter beam sliced dangerously low over their heads.

"Up you get, sir," he grunted, hauling the Vulcan back to his feet. Up ahead of them, he could hear the heated altercation being shouted in the tunnels, and he winced; Rowland was getting the raw end of the deal here with a freaking-out Captain Kirk.

"Get him out of here, Rowland – I've got the Commander! We're fine! Move out and call for beam-up once you're clear!" he bellowed, and heard the voices calm a bit before they drew further away.

Cho suddenly appeared at his back, pushing him none too gently along. "Move, move, move," she muttered worriedly, sending another phaser beam over her shoulder at a shadow which followed them. "We're never going to get him out in time if we don't move faster – how is he?"

"I am…functional," Spock's cool voice, slightly slurred though it was from the onset of shock, kept them both from going insane with nervous tension, and he quickened his pace despite the sudden noise of pain the First made in the back of his throat.

A small hand fumbled at his side, shoving him along in the darkness. "Keep moving, Matthews," Cho snapped. "Don't stop, no matter what you see or hear, you got that?"

He didn't have much choice, but beside him Spock stiffened, sluggishly tried to halt their progress. "Lieutenant, I order you to not –"

"With all due respect, sir," Cho paused to fire behind them again, and Matthews heard a short guttural roar of pain, "you are relieved due to medical incapacitation. Matthews, whatever you do don't stop until you get him _and_ the captain out of here, understood?"

A sinking feeling settling in his gut, he gulped a deep breath. This was what their job was about, and they both knew it. "Why you, instead of me?" he asked quietly, without slacking pace.

"A, because I'm your superior officer and it's my responsibility. And B," Cho reached under her short skirt and whipped out a second phaser, snapped the setting into kill mode and then hefted it into her left hand, "I'm the only one here who's _ambidextrous_. Now move it, Matthews!"

"Good luck," he shot over his shoulder, clutching the groggy Vulcan as he listed dangerously to one side. He tried not to think of the fact that they both knew how this would end, and only hurried on with his burden, praying to any deity that would listen that Cho would die by disrupter blast instead of being disarmed and captured for the brief time Klingons liked to confront their prisoners face-to-face; it was far more merciful a death, and far more fitting.

Spock's arm on his shoulders suddenly slackened, and he felt the Vulcan begin to slide dangerously to the side. Swearing under his breath, he hauled his superior back up and half-dragged, half-led him on down the emergency tunnels, hoping that the faint illumination of the electric candles hidden in recesses along the way would be enough to prevent them from sprawling. If they lost any ground they would be dead, with or without Cho buying them time. The Commander was trembling perceptibly; with a lower than human body temperature already, he was descending even lower into shock now. Matthews glared fiercely into the darkness and vowed he would _not_ lose anyone else, not today.

The sounds of weapons discharging made the walls of the tunnels reverberate around them, lending a frightening aspect to the already surreal situation; he was stumbling along in the half-dark with a blind and injured Vulcan, only hoping that Rowland had already gotten the captain clear and back to the _Enterprise_ in case he and the First Officer didn't make it out. They probably shouldn’t have come down without a fully armed squad of six, but their briefing had said the natives were peaceful enough; Giotto and Kirk had wanted to show good faith.

Faith never kept anyone alive in Security.

They couldn't have much farther to go, he reasoned, trying to remember just how long the tunnels had been, but their stumbling journey seemed endless as it banked downhill and then upward again – rougher going, but obviously heading toward the surface, which was good.

At last they rounded a corner, and Matthews could see the haze of light up ahead that signaled the end of their escape, two pinpoints of shadow moving in front of it – obviously Rowland and the Captain, pelting along for dear life not fifty yards ahead of them.

And then he heard Cho's scream, which traveled down the tunnel, amplified and echoing all around them until he thought he might weep from the sheer terrifying horror of it.

He didn't realize how badly both the scream and his own sick feelings of guilt and horror and sense of death would impact a touch-telepath until Commander Spock literally folded in his arms, out cold.

There was physically no way he could carry the First Officer, and so he grimly hauled the limp body into a sort of awkward half-nelson and began dragging him, hoping he wouldn't do more damage in the process. He didn't dare call out for help, because that would send Kirk into a panic and most likely cost them all their lives – and whatever happened, the captain had to make it back to the ship, at any cost.

The two shadows up ahead disappeared into the light a moment later, and he threw all his body mass and knowledge of leverage into hauling the dead weight of their First Officer as quickly as he could over the rough stone.

Then, from behind them, he heard the steady tramping of enormous footsteps, the rhythmic tread of a group who knows no matter how hard their prey might try, it could not escape them. Matthews bit his lip and hauled with all his might, for one instant and one instant only debating whether or not to leave Spock and dash out to get Rowland's help. The Klingons seemed fixated on Kirk, after all, and not the rest of them; they might just leave the Commander for dead and keep going.

But he had taken a vow to protect, and part of Security's job was ensuring that protection to each officer assigned – and he'd been assigned Mr. Spock, and so Mr. Spock he would protect.

He dragged the Vulcan another ten feet, feeling the strain in every muscle of his body, and tried not to grunt or make a noise of pain when he continued another ten. The sound of heavy boots in the tunnel, drawing nearer now, lent his failing strength a second burst of energy, and he threw all his weight into hauling his burden toward the light of the tunnel. Two more yards. And two more. And two more…

But he wasn't even within fifty feet of the opening when he realized the Klingons were just around the corner.

Well, then. There was nothing for it but to go down swinging.

He propped the limp body as gently as he could against the wall, out of firing range, and crouched in front of the Vulcan on one knee, phaser precisely trained on the tunnel juncture while the footsteps drew nearer.

The first Klingon's boots appeared at the corner, and Matthews took careful aim; no time to waste in only wounding.

Then his hair stood on end, the familiar tingling of a transporter lock began to filter through his cellular structure, and he began to laugh.

One quick gesture to make sure the Commander's communicator was still attached and had been locked on to as well, and two well-placed shots for good measure into the roaring, disappointed Klingon party, and then they disappeared in the shimmer of the _Enterprise_ 's transport beam.

He was still laughing the hysterical laugh of one who is about to pass out from shock and was still kneeling protectively before their First, phaser clutched in both outstretched hands, when they materialized.

He didn't realize how badly he was shaking until Captain Kirk beat the medical team to the platform and dropped to one knee in front of him, gently taking the phaser from his now-trembling hands and flinging it to one side.

"You all right, Matthews?" the man asked softly, hands gripping his arms.

"Fine," he managed, swallowing hard and firmly on a rise of hysteria. "The Commander's in bad shape, though, s-sir."

Kirk glanced up at their Chief Medical Officer, who was already well on his way to reading preliminary medical scanner test results.

"He's in shock; body temperature way too low, even for him – but the blindness is flash-blindness, damage seems to be mostly cosmetic," McCoy muttered, gently placing a gel-soaked cloth on the Vulcan's burned features as his trauma team worked to move Spock to an anti-grav stretcher. "No damage to the retina according to this, though honestly I'm not quite sure _how,_ given how burned his face is. Derned Vulcan physiology. Where's Lieutenant Cho?"

He wasn't sure if it was Kirk who shuddered in relief or himself, maybe both, but he was pretty sure it wasn't Kirk who was on the verge of throwing up suddenly at the mention of the Lieutenant.

"She – she gave me enough time to get the Commander out of there, sir," he said, closing his eyes for a moment to attempt to block out the pain he saw on the captain's face. "I'm sorry, Captain." He felt suddenly limp, as if he could barely hold his head up, and heard an abrupt exclamation from above him before gentle hands were holding him still for McCoy's scanner as well.

"Spock's not the only one in shock," the physician snapped, gesturing to one of his nurses. "And what you did to the muscles and ligaments in your back is nothing to sneeze at – how many classes have I had with you Security and Maintenance people, tellin' you to lift with your _legs_ , not your back!" The rant continued for another several minutes, during which he vaguely registered Spock being rushed to Sickbay, followed closely by Nurse Chapel, who was already barking orders into a wrist-comm for a trauma unit to be set up.

Captain Kirk was about to follow when he halted, whirled around, and returned to where Matthews sat, half-supported by a white-faced Ensign Rowland. Dropping again to one knee, the captain looked him in the eyes, barely-veiled fear showing clearly through his intense gaze.

"Thank you, Matthews," Kirk said hoarsely, and then he hurried out after the medical team, leaving McCoy to bark irritable orders to everyone within hearing range.

Matthews decided it would not be unforgivable for him to finally release the feeble thread of consciousness which was keeping the black cloud at the edge of his vision, and he finally let go.

* * *

When he woke up in Sickbay, he could tell from the very atmosphere that Mr. Spock was in no serious danger; McCoy was yelling from somewhere in the other ward about Vulcan stubbornness, and the nurses were smiling tolerantly and shooting each other knowing looks. A moment later the Captain came through the ward from the small lavatory attached to the CMO's office. His eyes bugged comically at the noise, and a cautious glance slid over to Nurse Chapel, who only raised an eyebrow at him.

For some reason that set the captain into a fit of giggles (yes, it was a well-known and loved fact that the fearless, dynamic captain of the Enterprise _giggled_. Like a _child_. And it was hilariously _adorable_.), and Matthews watched as the nurse gave the man a knowing look and waved him on through to Spock's recovery cubicle.

But Kirk saw that he was awake, and detoured first to see him. "How are you feeling, Matthews?" the captain asked.

"Much better, sir," he answered quietly. "I apologize for my reaction earlier. Lieutenant Cho was – was a wonderful person, sir."

"Never apologize for feeling horror at death and loss, even when it is due to heroism or the line of duty, Ensign," Kirk replied, just as quietly. "To feel nothing over such a loss means we are no longer human, and is demeaning to the lieutenant's sacrifice."

"Aye, sir," he whispered. "Captain, what about Mr. Spock – is he all right?"

"Apparently, he is well enough to be giving our Chief Medical Officer fits," Kirk observed, as the rant in the other room reached epic proportions. "Vulcans have some incredible healing powers themselves; once his temperature stabilized his body went into healing mode. Eight hours later, he's fairly recovered other than the cosmetic damage, which McCoy will fix this afternoon. If he ever calms down," the man added, looking dubiously at the door as the lab-coated physician stormed out in a temper royale.

"I warned you, didn't I?" McCoy snarled, jabbing a finger at the wide-eyed captain's chest. "I told _both_ of you, these incomplete medical records about Vulcan physiology are inexcusable, and this tears it! I had no idea how to go about tryin' to make that green-blooded excuse for an organic encyclopedia even comfortable, much less how to _heal_ him!"

"But he's fine now, isn't he?" Kirk asked, placating with a small smile.

"No thanks to me and my medicine! And he has the gall to smirk up at me and point out that he was right, that my services weren't needed and I need to, and I quote, ‘remove my person from his presence as I am detracting from the healing process –"

"BONES," Kirk interrupted at last, just when Matthews was wondering how long the physician could go without drawing breath.

"What," the man snapped.

"Go to your office and get a _drink_ , Doctor. I'll join you in a minute; I could use one too."

Scowling, the physician shot Matthews a look. "Don't you get any ideas about leavin' until one of us clears you, young man," he growled.

"But –"

Blue eyes sparked dangerously. "Are you _arguin'_ with me, boy?"

"No, sir!"

"Good," McCoy snapped, stalking off to his officer in a temperamental huff. Matthews was sure if automatic doors could be slammed, the physician would have nearly broken his.

Captain Kirk looked as if he was about to laugh or cry, and couldn't decide which was more appropriate. "It's his way of saying thank you for saving Spock's life down there, Matthews," he said at last, smiling down at the man.

"Just my job, sir," he replied, embarrassed. He hadn't done so much; after all, Cho had given her life for the same duty.

"And that's why I signed you aboard this ship, Ensign. I'm so very glad I did," Kirk returned, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder before the man went on into the Commander's cubicle.

"Don't let Doctor McCoy frighten you too much, Ensign," a voice said close beside him, and he looked into the gentle face of Christine Chapel. "You're free to go when you feel up to it; just be careful to not put more than typical strain on your back for a few days. I have some medication you can call for if you find yourself experiencing muscle spasms."

"Thank you," he murmured. "I'll stay for a bit, if it's all right; it's quieter here than in my cabin." He didn't mention that he was supposed to have had evening meal and a game of checkers with Lieutenant Cho today, but he thought Chapel sensed something of the kind for she only nodded understandingly and showed him how to access his bedside computer monitor.

He read the reports about the mission, to update himself without having to ask for details, and accessed the ship's records to find that the Federation colonists on the planet had finally managed to take the renegade (they doubted they were really renegade, but of course the Empire wasn't going to claim them) Klingons into custody, and that the treaty had been adjusted to permit a detachment of personnel to become temporary occupational forces on the planet, until they were certain of no further treachery from the natives. The natives had fallen prey to the high promises of wealth and protection from the Klingons, as so many had before them, and were now horrified to learn of just whom they had trusted.

But no amount of regret would bring Cho back, and he sadly turned his attention to her files, what were public knowledge. She was an only child, with both parents deceased as his were as well – something they'd discovered in some more solemn conversation a few weeks before – and very little else was revealed which he had not already known. They'd had many long talks about anything and everything; they agreed on many ideals which were highly important to both of them, the foremost of which was their job and why exactly they had decided to enlist in the Security portion of Ops.

Finishing this, he then pulled up her semi-personal logs, which were able to be accessed by a list of selected friends whose ID and passwords she had programmed, and he absently began to read.

Two hours later, he found the entry in which she had spoken about the upcoming holiday season, and there he discovered whose name she had drawn for the secret gift exchange; it explained her sudden interest in him, and the friendship they'd struck up as a result.

 _"I've been assigned the name Matt Matthews,"_ Cho's pleasant voice came through the audio link, and he closed his eyes against the tears that burned deep behind his eyelids. _"I've only seen him once, around the ship, but if I remember right he's the one who caught the intruder that beamed aboard with the last landing party at Starbase Six. Seems to be a fairly intelligent, pleasant guy, and dedicated to his duty…something that's sadly lacking in so many of these kids we're getting fresh out of the Academy. I'm going to go find him now; he's signed in to eat at 0700 in General Mess. We'll see what kind of man he really is."_

He snapped off the recording without listening to the other entries, for he couldn't, not just yet. Someday he would, though; for this fiery young woman had in just four weeks gained his entire respect.

And she had died saving his life and that of Commander Spock; going out the way she and he both had once agreed they wanted to – performing their duty. Truly, there could be no greater gift he could have received.

 _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes,_ he whispered to himself, and he hoped that wherever she was now, that she knew she had died protecting the protector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Please don't get too attached to Matthews; if you remember the beginning of _What Are Little Girls Made Of_ , you know he goes the unfortunate way of most redshirts... *hides*


	11. Chapter Ten

**_Chapter Ten_ **

Lieutenant Sulu was, first and foremost, a pilot. He was secondarily a botanist, an amateur fencer and jiu-jitsu instructor, and a mean poker player. He was also, due to complete loyalty to James T. Kirk, the central clearing house for any and all gossip aboard ship. (He was also one of the most devious minds aboard, and as such scared the pants off anyone who found themselves on the wrong end of his attention.)

The Enterprise grapevine was renowned for its organization. So many things went on aboard that ship that occurred nowhere else, and so much happened which was swept under the rug by the command chain or Starfleet itself, that there had to be an accurate system in place so that the crew would know what was truth and what was only speculation. Sickbay was a crucial link in the chain; the nurses loved to pass on information or anecdotes which happened there, and Chapel had enough common sense to make sure absolutely nothing left the ward which fell under doctor-patient confidentiality. Communications was the other main clearing house for ship gossip, as those involved with the intranet of the ship and the communications between crewmembers would have the best and most accurate idea of ship's business.

And Sulu sat the middle of it, categorizing what the crew needed to know, what they didn't need to know, and what they really should pretend like they had never known in the first place. Anything detrimental to the chain of command was stamped out quite viciously if it made it past the Sickbay checkpoint, for the young man had seen and heard of far too many starships dividing against themselves due to rumor and speculation. News traveled quickly aboard, which was a good thing most of the time, and any news which should remain private was obliterated from existence or at least from public view within a very short time.

No one wanted to mess with Sulu, despite the rumors that the guy couldn't hurt a fly. There was just something about him, that warned off anyone aboard who had an ounce of common sense somewhere inside. It was always the quiet ones who were the most dangerous.

Sulu was in a unique position, being the first ensign from the lower decks to be transferred directly to alpha shift Bridge duty, leaping a few intermediate steps in the process. Whatever his faults, Sulu could be trusted, and Kirk rarely made a mistake in his opinions of his crew. In return, the young man trusted his captain without question, and became something of a protégé of Kirk's as time progressed and he grew an interest in captaining a ship of his own someday.

But he still had an in with the lower decks, making sure to keep friendly relations with all and in turn being accepted by both lower and upper decks alike. This kept him locked securely into the ship's command and gossip chains alike, and he was able to weave a network of sub-communications below the surface, its purpose to protect and benefit the ship and her image.

Though he had kind of shot his scary image to pieces with his impromptu swordfight on the Bridge during the Psi2000 crisis (though Yeoman Rand assured him with an entirely straight face that he had been _quite fierce_ , he had his doubts, major ones), Sulu rallied ferociously, stamping out any and all rumors which developed from the events surrounding that little catastrophe. Mr. Spock personally thanked him for correcting the ship's gossip that he and the captain had gotten into a hair-pulling catfight in Briefing Room Three…though Spock never did explain the chairs that had been knocked over in there or the automated noise reports from Security about that little stunt.

He was stranded ashore on a planet which was rapidly turning into an iceberg during the events which surrounded the Transporter Malfunction of the Year (or so the lower decks were calling it behind the captain's back until he put a stop to it), and so missed the entire melodrama aboard; only Uhura's careful influence kept that incident from spiralling out of control.

Rand was a good officer, just a little starstruck, and just had been indiscreet in the past and so unfortunately was facing a lot of gossip about this event in which she was totally innocent. He would actually be sorry to see her go at the next Starbase just after the holidays; though why she was really leaving and how necessary it was were nobody’s business but hers.

Gertrude missed her too, he noticed; the plant's blooms drooped for five straight hours after Rand had come by to tell him the news (he'd already heard through the grapevine, but confirmation was always necessary before he'd mark something down as fact). He had to spend three days coaxing the little thing to perk up again, and it was harder to do than trying to get a non-opiatic breed of poppies to grow in the arboretum.

His love of flying was second only to his love of botany and xenobotany, though he rarely had the time to spend on either as a pastime rather than Starfleet business. But Jake Jacoby, the _Enterprise_ 's head of agricultural studies, let him mess around in the arboretum and botany labs whenever he wanted to, and so most evenings aboard ship found him entrenched in some project or other, happily working away on whatever pet had caught his fancy that week. He was the go-to person for anyone wanting flowers for a girlfriend, ideas for plants as gifts, knowledge of how to properly care for exotic blossoms or coax life out of dusty replicated soil. It was only rarely that he got to exercise his knowledge in a professional rather than recreational situation – and those were rarely, if ever, pleasant.

Being summoned to the Transporter Room after an exploratory away mission beam-out, along with a medical team, was never a good sign.

He skidded into the room just behind the medical squad, and lurched to a halt inside the door. Everyone was staring at the transporter pad, faces showing various looks of shock and horror and…amusement?

Sulu blinked.

"Well don't just stand there!" the captain fairly yelped.

"Captain," Commander Spock's cool voice broke the silence, and Sulu wasn't at all surprised to hear the eye-rolling in the tone. "I did warn you."

Sulu was quite sure that if there hadn't been a dozen people in the Transporter Room, Kirk would have had something more to say than "So you did, Mr. Spock," which actually sounded more like "Please walk out the nearest airlock without an EV suit, Mr. Spock." But the room was crowded, and so the captain only looked pleadingly at his entirely unamused medical staff.

"So let me get this straight," McCoy was saying, as he warily circled the transporter pad, examining the problem. Kirk's two security guards began to edge slowly away as the man drew nearer, casting each other wary looks. "You beam down to an unknown planet. You're told to examine anything you see before you touch it."

"I did examine it! Spock scanned it! You told me the thing had no poisons or toxic fumes or spores or thorns – that it was harmless!"

"It _was_ ," the Vulcan replied without change of tone. "Until you attempted to pick one of the blossoming seed-pods from it."

The captain looked unhappily down at his boots. "They were…pretty," he muttered lamely, and ran his free hand nervously through his messed-up hair.

Bits of grass and petals fell from his head to the transporter pad.

Someone coughed.

McCoy hid his face in his hand. "Out," he snapped, without looking up.

Sulu scrambled out of the way as the medical team filed out, barely making it outside before their howls of laughter were heard retreating down the corridor.

"What?" was the indignant rejoinder, accompanied by one hand fisted on the captain's hip. "I grew up in Iowa, for heaven's sake – so I like flowers and growing things!"

"It would appear they 'like' you in response, sir," Spock observed, dead-pan, and McCoy choked down a laugh.

"Hold still now," the physician said, more seriously, as he moved closer, "and let me get a look at this thing…what on God's green earth is it, anyway?"

"Planet M-541 is not, as you put it, God's green earth, and we have nothing in the botanical library which can suitably match the plant's makeup and genetic processes; that is why I summoned Lieutenant Sulu to the transporter room," Spock replied, glancing toward the young man, who was still hovering near the door, watching.

"I've never seen anything like it, it just – ouch! Bones, don't threaten it!" Kirk exclaimed worriedly, as the plant's…jaws, Sulu supposed they were, tightened menacingly on his trapped arm.

"All I did was try to see how in the world it can be surviving now with its root system in shreds on this transporter pad," the physician retorted. "It should be dead or dying, but if it is then it's got one heck of a reflex system and your arm's trapped in its rigor mortis!"

"Why, again, did you beam it up with the captain, sir, instead of beaming us down?" Sulu asked, half-regretfully, as the plant would make a fascinating study.

"We had no intention of doing so," Spock explained patiently, though Sulu saw the twitch of an irritated eyebrow. "Beaming the captain out of his predicament was the logical approach."

"But you mean…the plant just came up with him, with no transporter lock?"

"Indeed."

"It's lucky to still be in one piece, an' no mistake," Scott interjected, obviously trying to hide his amusement. "I couldna tell what was what, and so had to just complete transport an' hope all the plant pieces that weren't locked got where they were supposed to be. Ye've still got your hand in there, sir, correct?"

Kirk's flushed face went pale.

"Scotty, stop it," McCoy chuckled. "He's messin' with you, Jim."

"Well I'm glad to be a source of amusement for all of you, _gentlemen_ , but I would like to have my hand back sometime this stardate!"

Spock's eyebrows inclined precariously at the near-tantrum. "Mr. Sulu, perhaps you would be best suited to instruct the captain?"

Oh, that sneaky Vulcan was _so_ not foisting this thing off on him. Sulu gave as much a glare as he could without tripping over the fine line between comfort and insubordination. "I'll do my best, sir, but I can't promise anything," he muttered, drawing near to the plant.

It was a massive thing, a stalk fully twelve inches in diameter, with various deep-purplish blossoms scattered amongst a froth of feathery vines and leaves all intertwined around it. Here and there among the blossoms were bushy, furry little seed-pods, looking almost like small fuzzy lavender animals crouched in among the flowers and stalks. Three large protrusions dangled from three sub-stalks, each carrying a massive object, roughly pear-shaped but almost as big as a man's head, which was divided in half and lined with feathery stalks…like a Venus flytrap, only ten times larger and with tiny vines instead of teeth.

Evidently it could grab just like a flytrap, though, because it had the captain's wrist and forearm tightly in its flexible jaws and was not about to let go.

"Stop tugging on it, sir," he requested quietly, and examined the other drooping protrusions as Kirk obeyed. None of them made any move to stop him, and he began to wonder if the plant really were dead and the captain simply caught in a death-grip.

"Are you in any pain, Captain?"

"No, not at all," Kirk replied, looking in irritation down at his arm. "I was afraid at first the thing was going to try to digest me, like a Venus flytrap or something, but it's not doing anything, and I can't feel any kind of liquid inside here that might be harmful. It just won't let go."

"When we scanned it, we found nothing of the kind, else the captain would not have touched it in the first place," Spock agreed, surveying the odd plant with an air of resignation.

Sulu could find nothing that would indicate why the thing had closed around the captain's arm and was not threatening him, nor how they could get the plant off the man without injuring one or both of them.

"Can you tell if it's alive or not?" Kirk asked.

"I think it is," Sulu replied quietly, inspecting the stalk and root system, which quivered at his touch. "But it's not going to live long out of its natural environment. It's – whoa!" At his gentle touch, the plant swayed, and then shrank away from him. "Yeah, it's still alive, I think…and it has a rudimentary intelligence, I'll bet."

"Wish it was intelligent enough to let go of my arm," Kirk muttered, along with a few other things which were less than complimentary.

"Why, exactly, did it…try to eat you, for lack of a better term, Captain?"

"I was just admiring the flowers and the little furry things," Kirk answered, blushing slightly, "and I had just picked one of the seed-pods to look at it more closely before Spock put it in his specimen kit when the thing just snapped up and ate my arm!"

McCoy rolled his eyes, taking a scan of the closed jaws of the plant. "It's not _eating_ anything, Jim, or your arm would just be a puddle of digestive juices about now."

Sulu wrinkled his nose, and returned to examining the problem. Cautiously, he reached out toward one of the seed-pods, just to see what would happen. Closer and closer, until his fingers just brushed the silky fuzz of the pod –

He scrambled back as the plant reared, one of the protrusions swooping down toward him and nearly taking off his head.

Kirk yelped as he was yanked along with the plant, barely regaining his footing with the help of their CMO. "Don't do that!"

"Wait a minute," Sulu replied, thinking furiously. He looked at the plant, which was still again, and then briefly ran a hand along Kirk's arm until it was hidden by the plant's gentle jaws. "Sir, your wrist is tensed…" he observed, glancing up at the captain. Kirk blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Are you still holding the seed-pod?"

"Still…yes, yes I am," the captain replied, realization lighting up his eyes.

"It's entirely possible the whole thing is a biological instinct to protect the offspring," Sulu suggested. "Try letting go of the pod, and see if it senses you doing so."

McCoy took up a position on the other side of the captain, ready to pull him out of harm's way if it worked, and Kirk looked over at the plant.

A moment later the jaws opened, and both men jumped backward before the mouth closed again, tucking itself protectively against its stalk.

"Mr. Sulu, you have just earned yourself a promotion," Kirk gasped, rubbing his newly-freed wrist.

Sulu chuckled. "Are you going to beam the plant back down, sir? I'd like to go along and return it to its home."

"I'd like to keep it for observation, but if it's got even rudimentary intelligence it needs to return to its habitat," the captain agreed. "Permission granted, but be careful and take a couple of Security with you just in case."

"That'll teach you to look, don't touch, Captain," Sulu heard McCoy needle the man as he left the Transporter Room. "Like a kid tryin' to snitch a cookie out of momma's cookie jar…"

Sulu grinned; he couldn't _wait_ to see how this little fiasco got repeated below decks.

* * *

It did get repeated, enough that by the end of the week he had heard four different versions of the tale, each of them painting him in the light of something of a plant-charmer, that he had pulled the captain out of a man-eating Venus flytrap with nothing but his bare hands and a few commands, etc., etc. It was highly amusing, if ridiculous.

But it did him a bit of good in the credibility department, and he began to make quite a bit of profit from crewman in the botany business; he began to cultivate exotic roses for crewmen to give their girlfriends, various herbs and vegetables for the vegetarians and amateur cooks aboard, different kinds of tea for those who preferred it to Starfleet's iffy-at-best coffee…and it was a highly enjoyable hobby. He spent many hours experimenting in the botany labs, with plants which could safely grow aboard a starship without risk to anyone; all with the captain's hearty approval, as the man was all for having 'green growing things' aboard his ship.

He was slightly surprised, however, to see not the captain or a crewman approaching him one evening as he sat at work, but Mr. Spock himself.

"Something I can do for you, Commander?" he asked, curious.

"Perhaps, Lieutenant."

The Vulcan looked slightly ill-at-ease, and though it could just be residual from the multiple funeral they'd had today for Shomari and the two other poor crewmen who died in the Huraon pirate battle, Sulu thought it might be something deeper. He settled back on the small stone bench on the vegetable plot where he was working, and indicated the empty half.

After a moment's hesitation, Spock sat. "I am…curious, Lieutenant, as to exactly how expert you are at genetically engineering exotic and rare plants," was the unusual opening statement.

Sulu looked curiously at the implacable Vulcan. "I'd like to think I'm fairly good, sir…I recently successfully cross-bred a Terran poppy with the Andorian yellow moonflower, did you hear about that? Looks like a poppy, but it's no longer an opiate. Instead it emits a harmless, non-addictive tranquilizer; can be used to calm the sick or mentally ill, especially if planted in large fields."

He saw an interested gleam light up the Vulcan's eyes. "A laudable scientific and medical accomplishment, Lieutenant," was the warm response, and Sulu beamed at the rare praise.

"Thank you, sir. I’m hoping to write it up for one of the Medical journals if I can ever find the time. But anyway, what could I help you with?"

"I am...I wish to employ your skills in an experiment, Lieutenant." Sulu had never heard the stolid Vulcan ever sound uncertain before, and he sat up to pay close attention as Spock continued uncomfortably. "I am prepared to compensate you for the time involved."

"Time meaning…? Deadline for this project?"

"Before the Terran Christmas season is concluded."

No way. Spock, wanting to get a Christmas present for someone? That was a holiday miracle in itself.

He tried to look appropriately disinterested. "What kind of project are we talking about, sir?"

The Vulcan looked half as if he was actually nervous, and half wanting very much to be anywhere but in this room, but he produced a small personal data-padd and brought up a diagram with a series of molecular equations.

After taking the padd, Sulu studied the diagrams and equations for a while, working out the genetic code in his head. Then his eyes sparkled, and he looked up from the padd. "If this were to work, you'd have engineered a pretty hardy little miniature sunflower, sir!"

Spock's pleased nod was reward enough for the brain bending he'd just been doing under pressure. "Quite so; but there is more than one flaw in my genetic code, Lieutenant, and I am not expert on Terran plant life or its cross-breeding; I must defer to you in that realm."

"Hmm, yeah, there is something not quite right, but it'll take some experimenting to figure out just what…and by the way, what kind of environment are you wanting this to grow in?"

The Vulcan hesitated. "Artificial sunlight, preferably, and as little of that as possible."

Sulu raised an eyebrow at him. "How little?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Like, are you planning on planting this thing in the arboretum, which can be programmed with optional day-night cycles and solar light of various kinds and strengths in the different plots, or is this for a private cabin?"

Spock fidgeted with the stylus he held before clicking it back into place on the padd. "The latter."

"I see." Sulu didn't see, not really, because what on earth was Spock going to do with a mini sunflower in his cabin? Wait, his cabin was set on high-grav and a temperature hot enough to melt lead. "Wait, this thing'll die in your cabin, Commander – there's no amount of engineering that can condition a sunflower to live in constant dry heat and triple gravity."

"It is…not for myself, Lieutenant," was the stiff, hesitant reply.

Sulu's brain short-circuited.

Then it refused itself, and made a quick jump of synaptic relays until it reached the logical conclusions.

A gift. Needed to survive in a private cabin. Miniature sunflowers.

Sunflowers.

 _Sunflowers_.

 ** _Iowa_**.

Well, wasn’t that interesting.

"This wouldn't, by any chance, be a _Christmas present_ for a certain crewman who, and I quote, 'likes the smell of green growing things,' by any chance, Mr. Spock?" he asked, trying his best not to smirk and scare the poor Vulcan away.

Spock's indignant look was answer enough.

Sulu attempted to school his features into solemnity, and only succeeded in looking like a grinning idiot. "I'll do my best, Commander," he promised without further comment, mostly because Spock looked like he would nerve pinch him if he dreamt of telling a soul, and took the padd with the seriousness the sweet gesture deserved.

"I shall be in your debt, Lieutenant." The Vulcan rose with his usual grace, all serene and expressionless as if he hadn't just dropped an earth-shattering bomb of humanity on a poor unsuspecting member of his crew. "I will be in the Science labs for the next three days overseeing a series of experiments, should you require my input."

Sulu waved over his shoulder as the Vulcan left, already spinning through several experimental scenarios in his mind and wondering if he could work a small bit of the moonflower coding into the plant so that it would not only be small and pretty in a cabin, but also release a muscle relaxant for the captain…no doubt he could use it, on days like this.

He grinned, and set to work immediately.

* * *

He had meant to work on the project the next day during his off-shift hours, but he'd been distracted by Robert Tomlinson and Angela Martine in the arboretum, having rather… _intimate_ discussions behind his Xoronian Yellow Flame bushes. He had beat a hasty exit, vowing to make people sign in when they wanted to appropriate his work environment, and went to the shuttle bays instead to hang around the engineers while they refitted the navigation consoles.

He was still holding out hopes that Kirk would let him test-drive the _Galileo_ when it was finished. Besides, he had been slightly unwillingly roped into helping Lieutenant Uhura make preparations for the Christmas/Solstice party later on in the week; she was a hard woman to say no to. He needed to discuss safety regulations with Scott in order to pass those along to the decorating crew (he'd drawn the line at that, thank you, and shifted the décor part of the whole thing over to Chapel), and there wasn't any reason why they couldn't multitask as long as he didn't get in the Engineer's way.

They were gearing up for a two-week run along the Romulan/Federation Neutral Zone, the reason they were going to be standing on yellow alert all through the Terran holiday season, and everything aboard had to be in top shape in case of trouble with the Romulans. Sulu himself had been spending quite a bit of time on the Bridge in the Captain's chair, while his COs were below decks inspecting various departments in preparation for their grueling two weeks. Tomorrow they would stop over at Starbase Nine for replenishment and restocking, and twenty-four hours later they would be on their way to the Neutral Zone; Kirk had made it clear that he wanted the ship in perfect condition before they warped out and Montgomery Scott knew exactly how much magic and how much plain hard work he had to exert to make it so.

Now, all that remained was to double-check everything, including the shuttlecrafts and escape and work pods; an arduous, time-consuming task, and one that he was glad he'd gotten out of when he was moved from Tactical to Piloting on the Bridge's alpha shift.

Scott was looking a bit frazzled when he arrived, and no wonder, judging from the coolant leak from the _Galileo_ , which Ensign Lin and a group of Maintenance personnel were trying to keep corralled. The Chief Engineer was directing with gestures and bellowing orders right and left to a crew who were moving about so quickly they looked like an army of red ants. Sulu stopped to watch as the checks were run on the _Copernicus_ 's systems, all that could be tested without depressurizing the decks, and then shot the gap in Scott's tirade.

"When you have a few, Mr. Scott, Lieutenant Uhura gave me a list of questions for you," he called. He well knew he'd get a much quicker response dropping the lieutenant's name instead of his own, and he wasn't disappointed now.

The Chief Engineer bellowed something indistinguishable into a wrist-comm to the crew tinkering aboard the _Copernicus_ , and then motioned him away from the clatter of machinery to a corner near a storage closet.

Scott sighed and ran a hand across his perspiring forehead. "Aye, and what might those questions be, Mr. Sulu? If the Lieutenant wants to know again if ye can have real candles lightin' the dance floor, the answer's still no, and she can take it up with our resident Vulcan himself if she wants to."

"Nothing like that," he replied, chuckling. "I just need to know what to tell the decorating crew about how many electrical light strands can be wired into a wall or floor conduit, and how much space we have to leave on either side of the control panels and storage locker doors, that kind of thing."

"Ah. Verne, watch that coupling!" Scott cringed at an eruption of sparks, which were waved away by the swearing Frenchman before he reconnected the coupling. "I kin send the appropriate diagrams and specs to ye and the lieutenant soon as I get away from this mess. If y’don’t receive them by 1400 hours then send me a message to remind me. What else?"

Sulu consulted the padd after checking off the electrical questions. "Most of those will be answered by the specs, I think…oh, about the party night itself, temporarily removing the wall between Science Lab Four and Rec Room Four so there's enough space for two hundred people?" The shifts would be skeletal that night, to allow for much of the crew to attend, but everyone had been warned that they might need to come in and out in shifts if more than that number were in attendance. Engineering and Security were going to have their own little festivities below decks (the Captain's exact words were 'I don't want to know'), and so that left a good portion of Ops out of the picture for the Science Lab party.

"It can be done, right enough, but only if the Captain and Mr. Spock sign off on the approval form. Form 146B, _Temporary Alteration of Internal Ship Design_ ," the engineer grumbled, tossing a crate of hardware to his approaching repair team. " _Copernicus_ , navigational systems and emergency docking sequences. Get to it, laddie. It'll take two hours to get the safety measures in place under the bulkheads between the rooms though, Mr. Sulu. Best to let the lads in well before Lieutenant Uhura's crew starts the decorating."

"Right. She plans to begin that afternoon, around 1400 hours – will 1200 work for your men?"

"I'll see to it. And a final inspection has to be made by either me or Commander Spock for safety and fire hazards before the thing starts, just remember that. I dunno how much time the Doc needs for his medical inspection, so coordinate with him as well."

Sulu dutifully made note of the regulation on the padd. Then, seeing a familiar face hovering in the crowd of red shirts milling about, he looked up at Scott. "How's Turner doing?" he asked as the young man's medical-issue hoverchair moved back to give passage to a trio carrying the extra medical compartments to install in the back of the _Galileo_.

"He's on light duty, per Doctor McCoy's orders, but he's improvin' by the day," Scott replied gratefully. "Been a rough bit o' road for him these last few days. For all of us, actually."

He clapped the engineer gently on the shoulder in silent sympathy for the fallen. Scott gave him a brief smile. "Anything else, Lieutenant?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Scott."

"Right then. Let me know if the Captain says you can test-drive one o' these shuttles," the man said with a knowing smile.

Sulu grinned as he left, careful to stay out of the way of the busily working crews. His next stop was Sickbay to see about what health forms needed to be filled out regarding the use of greenery and mistletoe at the gathering. His visit was timed perfectly, as Dr. McCoy was probably at lunch with the captain; rumor had it that the physician was on another of his let's-lock-the-captain's-meal-card-out-of-complex-carbohydrates kicks…

* * *

He walked briskly into Sickbay via McCoy's more private consultation entrance, only to be confronted with the sight of Commander Spock standing with hands clasped behind his back, engaged in what looked like a very earnest conversation with Nurse Chapel.

"I – _ulp_." He gulped as the two's converse suddenly halted mid-sentence. "Right, so I can definitely come back later. _Way_ later," he added, backing slowly toward the door.

Spock's frigid glare-of-Death barely had time to hit him before he had hightailed it out of there, eyes wide.

 _Poor Chapel_ , he thought as he sent the turbolift toward Ship's Stores and Requisition, where he was supposed to meet Uhura.

* * *

When he reached SS&R, the place was in a minor uproar, which was only to be expected as it was five days before Christmas. Every comm in the department was in use, as well as every replicator, and he'd have bet his last credit that if there had been an inspection of protocol and safety in the department at that moment the whole lot of them would be put on report.

Lucky for all of them, Captain Kirk was a sensible and generous man, and their resident Vulcan was wrapped around said captain's little finger; other commanders might not have been so lenient with the bedlam.

"And how, exactly, do you think I can get six matching costumes replicated before the dress rehearsal tomorrow, Lieutenant, with all the replicators tied up like this?" Kalov was practically wailing before Lieutenant Uhura. "The captain wants a new outfit for the party, Doctor McCoy's _still_ yammering on about his precious petrie dishes, Mr. Scott told me if I don't have the portable thermal units for the shuttles up there on schedule he's going to personally see to it that half my personnel are reassigned, Mr. Spock's on my back about some experiment he's conducting in Lab Ten which needs about a hundred different pieces of tech, and here you're worried about six _Santa hats_?"

"It's hardly my musicians' fault that you somehow misplaced my requisition, Lieutenant," Uhura replied calmly. "I was quite clear, and submitted it two weeks ago."

"I still don't know who to blame for that one," Kalov growled, glaring about him as his people scuttled hastily out of visual range. "You got the lights and conifers, though, right?"

"All accounted for," she replied. "But I'm still missing the six wreaths and the power-celled candles."

"On it," Chee'tha called from somewhere overhead, followed by a small crash and the tinkling of broken glassware.

Kalov covered his eyes with his hands. "Do I want to know?" he bellowed upward.

"…No, sir!"

"Sweep it out of sight, then! And make sure you get those scrubs to McCoy before you go off duty!"

Sulu chuckled at the pandemonium, and waved at their communications chief, who flashed him a rueful smile. "Carry on, Lieutenant," Uhura said cheerfully, moving across the crowded floor and completely missing the incredulous look of desolation which the poor overworked SS&R head sent after her.

"Someone needs to get poor Kalov a personal tranq gun," he observed solemnly, as two jumpsuited techs moved around them, carrying a wide load of foodstuffs for the galleys.

"Mention it to Nurse Robertson, he's the one who got Kalov as his gift exchange recipient," Uhura laughed as they exited. The cool air of the corridor, in high contrast to the boiling sauna of SS&R, struck them like an arctic breeze.

Sulu breathed deeply, mopping his forehead. "Speaking of, who did you end up with?" he asked curiously as they moved toward their next stop, the galleys.

Uhura smiled. "I'm not telling you, Mr. Sulu; that would spoil the surprise, now wouldn't it, considering everyone comes to you for ship's gossip?"

"You make it sound like I'm a neighborhood grandparent who sits on the porch and watches everybody else's business happen," he replied, trying to scowl and not really succeeding.

A delicate shrug. "If the shoe fits, Lieutenant…"

"Very funny, _Lieutenant_." They entered the lift, grinning. "But I don't mind telling you I'm a little clueless about my recipient," he added companionably, as he pulled up their checklist again.

"Oh? Who did you end up with?"

"Someone from the Xenosocietal Development research bunch," he replied, shrugging. "I don't even know who the guy is, just got the name this morning. Haven't really had time to look him up. Name's Lieutenant Cory Forst-Nechart; you know him?"

"Her," Uhura corrected, stifling a smile at his blank look. "Cory's short for Cornelia, which she hates. Nice girl, upscale European background, brilliant researcher and historian, quite the brain. She sculpts, too, I think? Oh, and she can kick even your proud little posterior in martial arts combat, Mr. Sulu, I'll wager you a gallon of Scotty's special egg nog. Karate instructor. Black belt."

 _That_ got his attention.

"Look her up – she's part of the decorating crew this week, since Histories have very little to do until we really start patrolling the Neutral Zone," Uhura added, dark eyes twinkling.

"How do you know so much about her?" he asked, scrolling in annoyance down the padd he held.

"Mr. Spock's been trying to lure her into transferring to his Xenobio Research teams," Uhura chuckled. "She's got a dual master's in both the historical and scientific branches of Xeno Research, but she prefers the history."

"And Spock loves her."

"In an entirely logical way, of course. Mainly because she rules her research team with a rod of iron and has been known to back down a whole army of Xenophobic scholars of superior rank, all without bringing herself insubordination charges."

"No – _that_ Cory?" he gaped, forgetting for a moment to exit as the lift doors opened. They chimed impatiently, and he followed Uhura out. "The one who for an extra credit her last year at the Academy took on an anti-Federation protest group from one of the San Fran universities and made all six debaters look like absolute idiots? On live intra-net?"

"That's the one. Here, what've we got to check in the galleys?"

"Good grief. Um…McCoy's list of crew allergies, for one thing; it's attached to this document here. And we have to make sure the cooks and servers know the party might be in shifts; don't bring out all the food at once, etc."

"I'll do that, if you'll check in with Lieutenant Marstead about the music practice scheduling, make sure everyone knows when and where to be tomorrow evening?"

"Right. Catch up with you and Janice in Mess tonight?"

Uhura nodded, smiling, and made her way into the galleys while he continued to the corridor junction, turning right to continue on toward Marstead's workroom in Rec and Leisure. As he walked, he scrolled through the padd, reading off the list of musicians to himself so that he would know whom to be looking for when he reached R&L.

He halted briefly, sighing, as he saw the name Cory Forst-Nechart on the list; Uhura was less than subtle. Wonderful. All the names he could have drawn on this ship, and he got the most quick-witted woman aboard. Who also was brilliant enough that Spock wanted her on Team Science.

And she also held a black belt.

Maybe he could convince Pavel Chekov to go with him. Purely because he might have some good ideas, of course, not because he needed moral support.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**_Chapter Eleven_ **

"I swear, if one more person tries to beam aboard this ship with contraband from the base, I'm going straight to the top and siccing Mr. Spock on them!"

"Oh, stow it, Kalov, you know you won't do anything of the kind," Lieutenant Kyle snorted, tossing the SS&R head and Ensign Peters two brightly-wrapped packages from the pile which had appeared on the transporter pad. "Besides, even the Captain said he didn't care as long as it wasn't a biohazard…or traceable to our transport beam."

Kalov shot him a withering look before closing the lid of the delivery crates. The worst part of SS&R was Transport duty, taking packages and cargo to and from the transporter rooms. And, it being Christmas and the _Enterprise_ docked at Starbase Nine, every crewman aboard seemed to take joy in sending his packages on ahead before beaming up himself. This created four hundred and twenty-nine times the amount of work it should have, if everyone would just carry his own presents back on board with him.

And then there was the contraband, which he had to scan and either confiscate or send back down to the 'Base; he was tempted just to stash it all in the unoccupied shuttle bay and say to heck with it, except that he didn't want any 'Base authorities coming after the captain.

"Whoa, hold it," he snapped, as the scanner beeped alarmingly. "I don't care what that is, if it's got any kind of DNA sequence it's not coming on board this ship without a signed requisition from McCoy's bio-med research teams. Send it back down there, Kyle."

"But –"

"I'm not caving on this, Peters. You weren't here when a new recruit slipped a miniature Bozenian hare aboard two years ago under Pike's command."

"I didn't know there was any such thing as a miniature –"

Kalov shuddered, waving the scanner more carefully over a plain package labeled for the Chief Medical Officer's quarters; you never knew when an assassin would take the opportunity to send an incendiary or other hazard aboard. "Again, no DNA specimens aboard this ship. Put a whole new meaning on _multiplying like rabbits_ , that did."

The scanner under his hands suddenly let out a loud whine, indicating liquids inside the package. "Great," Kalov growled, shoving the box over to Peters. "Get that open and find out what it is."

"Probably Andorian Blue Fire or something like that," was the absent reply. The ensign began to slice through the thick adhesive holding the flaps closed.

"Liquor I can live with, but if it's medical supplies then it has to be beamed up with the Sickbay requisitions, not personal effects, or the paperwork if we're caught can be ugly."

"Roger that. There we go…um. Lieutenant?"

"What?" he barked, waving three brightly-wrapped, harmless parcels through the line. Hmm, looked like Chee'tha was sending up…two boxes of imported kitty treats and a scratching post? Weird; but then again, he was part Katarran. Who knew.

"It's…well, the liquid's harmless, it’s just Saurian brandy. Not even the good stuff, either."

"Then what are you staring at, it's none of your business what the man brings on board?"

Eyebrows long since vanished into his hairline, Peters turned, and held up a pair of furry slippers in an obnoxious shade of electric green. 

Looking up from the transporter console, Kyle blinked. "What on earth."

"I don't want to know, I don't want to know…" Kalov muttered in a sing-song tone, shaking his head.

A right lot of crazies, this ship was. He couldn't wait until the holiday madness was over.

* * *

A loud crash, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass and a very annoyed Scottish burr indicated the decorating at the far end of the modified ball-room was not proceeding as rapidly as it was under Lieutenant Uhura's brisk direction at this end. Sulu eyed the spreading pile of multi-colored shards and again wondered why they hadn't gotten shatterproof plasticene from Ship's Stores instead of the retro-accurate glass balls. He shot Ensign Lin from Maintenance a sympathetic look, as the woman moved smoothly into place with a dustbin and a narrowed glare at the clumsy engineer who'd stepped on the ornament.

"Nurse Chapel, Dr. McCoy's on the comm for you," Mott, an ensign from Researching, called over the din.

"Tell him I'll be back when we're done here, not before, and if he doesn't like it that's what he gets for being a Grinch and refusing to help with the preparations," the woman said dryly, not even looking up from hanging garland over the holographic fireplace the Engineering crew were tinkering with close beside the massive artificial conifer. Sulu was much impressed by the fact that the smell was actually quite authentic; rumor had it that Scott had fifty galactic credits on his Engineering crew against Commander Spock's skepticism (and the captain's great amusement) that they could produce a tree which only close inspection would prove artificial, and if this was the result the Vulcan was out a bit of pocket change.

_"I heard that!"_

"And deserved it, too, Doctor," Uhura retorted into the comm. Honestly, the drama.

_"I'm a doctor, not an interior decorator! And y'all had better get me a list of ingredients for that punch Scotty's making, so I can print up the allergy warning labels before half the crew goes into a coma tonight."_

"Here now!" an indignant Scott bellowed from across the room. "Nothin' in that punch will do anything but good to the lot of you, especially _you_ , y'old Scrooge!"

"Boys," Uhura said calmly. "You'll have what you need, Doctor, sooner rather than later if you _let us get this done_. Everything has to be ready for safety inspection by 1400 hours, and you aren't helping, calling down here every few minutes. Cory, fix that wreath a few degrees to the left; it's smashed on that side."

 _"I can tell when I'm not wanted."_ A pathetic little fake sniff, which made everyone within earshot roll their eyes fondly. _"So let me know when – Matthews! Don't you dare sneak out of here without so much as a 'by your leave'! **Back** on that table or so help me – oh, McCoy out."_

Amid the smattering of laughs which erupted from those closest to the comm-unit, Sulu didn't hear the light footsteps come up beside him.

"Lieutenant Sulu, are you ever going to start up a conversation with me, instead of just eyeing me over the top of your clipboard?"

Panicked, Sulu dropped the stylus with which he'd been checking off tasks, and scrambled after it; more in an effort to hide his embarrassment than in fear for its safety. Obviously he wasn't as subtle about his observation as he'd thought – but who wouldn't be scared of a six-foot-tall genius female black belt?

Cory Forst-Nechart was an open-minded young woman, and while she wasn't overly physically attracted to men so much shorter than herself thought the lieutenant's nervousness was a bit endearing, and he certainly wasn’t stupid, that much was clear. Besides, she'd always wanted to learn how to fence and just had never gotten around to it.

Grinning, she followed the young helmsman as he fled after his rolling stylus. This would be an enjoyable diversion from setting up wreaths and other décor, at least…

* * *

"Have I said recently, how much I am really not looking forward to this?"

"Fifty-four-point-three seconds ago, Captain." While the tone was dry, the Vulcan's eyes were not without sympathy. Though the ship was fairly rocking in space with excited preparations for the biggest seasonal social occasion of their first year, her captain was still keenly feeling the stress and loss of recent events. Kirk had also mentioned, melancholy, that it would be the first Christmas he'd spent without what the human termed 'hanging out' with Gary Mitchell, the late First Officer and long-time friend of the human before him.

"It's a human thing, Spock," he had been informed, somewhat bitterly, when he had attempted to inquire upon the human's sadness. "Sometimes I wish we had the capability to close off the parts of ourselves that hurt, so we can enjoy the present as you Vulcans do. It just isn't that simple for us."

Spock had not fully understood, but that was nothing novel when in contact with humans; and in five months he had learned the wisdom of sometimes simply allowing humans to 'vent,' was the term he had heard McCoy use once. And so he sat in the captain's desk chair, half of his available brain-power computing rotations for the crew on the following day should some of them prove to be foolish in their consumption of alcoholic beverages tonight; and the other half in watching his captain grumpily struggle his way through final preparations to his appearance.

How one human could need so many hair and body products, which were currently lined up along Kirk's side of the bathroom shelves, continued to astound him. Their shared bathroom countertop of a typical morning was a veritable study of infinite diversity in infinite (scented, many of them) combinations.

At present, it was that single lock of unruly hair which gave its owner so much trouble in the mornings, which was the cause of the human's current consternation. Finally giving up, Kirk let it flop over his brow with a gesture of resignation and sighed, leaning against the bath counter for a moment.

"I don't want to go, Mr. Spock," the human finally said in a low tone, eyes upon the drain below. "All I can see is the ship's roster, and the people who should be there and won't be."

Spock rose and silently moved closer to the open bathroom door. "That is understandable; it is your first command, and you are already known for taking that command – and its people – most seriously."

Kirk glanced sidelong at him, no doubt waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "that does not negate your responsibility to those members of your crew who still remain. Tonight, this crew needs the presence of their captain, far more than their captain needs solitude."

The captain winced. "Ouch." For a moment Spock thought perhaps he had over-stepped himself, despite Kirk's standing orders to call him on areas in which his command style could improve – but then the human's eyes softened. "Of course you're right, Mr. Spock. But you don't mince words, do you?"

"Mince words, sir?"

"You can't possibly be as ignorant of human idioms as you pretend to be," the human returned with a chuckle. "But leave it. I'm going; you don't have to drag me."

"I did not anticipate needing to."

He received a small smile, and after a final look in the mirror Kirk straightened his tunic and turned. "Well, then. Once more unto the breach, my friend?"

He was still not accustomed to this human's peculiar idea that shared conversation and the occasional chess match seemed, apparently, to constitute a human 'friendship'; but he would not disillusion the man, not at least before more fully researching the unusual phenomenon.

He nodded, stepping aside to allow the human passage, and then taking up his position at the captain's shoulder.

The Shakespearean quote regarding battle zones was apt, the wry thought flitted through his mind, considering that he was no doubt going to have to face Nurse Chapel head-on at some point in the evening.

* * *

"No, we got the approvals on time, it was just that one of the bulkheads looked like it wasn't locking into place. Commander Scott was working on it when I left," Robert Tomlinson said into the comm, earpiece in place to keep his hands free to arrange his cuff-links in the nearest mirror. "I don't know, it wasn't my area – I was stuck under the fake fireplace trying to figure out the mess Riley made of the wiring under the artificial logs…yes, I know he has a good heart, but sometimes I think the kid's just a teacher's pet, that has to be the only reason he's on board. Captain's pet, whatever. Yeah, I know. Look, I have to go, Turner – make sure you scoot your hoverchair out on that dance floor tonight, you hear? No reason you can't have fun like the rest of us. Psh, Angela will dance with you, I know she will. Right. See you later."

He glanced once more in the mirror, and then activated the intra-vid-comm.

"Hey, gorgeous."

He received an eye-roll for his pains in romantic greeting, much to the amusement of his hyperactive room-mate, who was already high on sugar and adrenaline, more so to come. Tomlinson looked askance as the young ensign literally bounced into the wall and off again, and he turned a please-help-me look toward his (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée's face on the screen before him.

"Seen my comb anywhere?" O'Dell asked as he blew by on the way to the bathroom.

"Left drawer, where you leave it every morning?" he returned dryly. "Now shift for a few, will you?"

"Sure thing," the ensign replied promptly, leering slightly at the open comm-link before cheerfully disappearing into the bath.

"Thank every deity in the quadrant," Tomlinson muttered, and heard a female laugh trickle over their vid-link, which was blank screen now; Angela had moved away in her preparations.

"Sooooo," he added after a moment's pause, "what're you wearing?"

"Robert!"

Temporarily derailed, he slapped a hand over his face in mortification. "I meant what're you wearing to the party – I want to match!" he groaned. "I wasn't –"

A giggle drew his attention back to the screen, and he saw Angela appeared more amused than anything else by his embarrassment. "White and gold," she replied, stepping back so he could see the sparkling holiday-themed gown and matching shoes she had coaxed out of Lt. Kalov on a good day last month.

Tomlinson whistled in genuine admiration, bringing a slight blush to his love's face. "Look," he finally found his voice after a moment, "I have something for you before we show up to the party; it'll go really well with that dress. Meet me on the Observation Deck in fifteen?"


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve_ **

While a career in Starfleet was, by all accounts and propaganda, glamorous and full of adventure, it was also as personally difficult as any military career would be. Millions of light-years from home, with only the same four hundred comrades day after day for company, would wear on even the best of a ship's crew. The _Enterprise_ , while the most elite and therefore the favored ship of the 'Fleet, was no exception.

Even live video-communiqués could not take the place of time and love spent with family and friends on each crewman's homeworld, and so if the party-planners for the _Enterprise_ 's recreation department went a bit overboard on any occasion they could scrounge up for a social event, no one minded, including the captain. The science department's Christmas-Solstice-Winter-Holiday-Freeforall party, for each crewman had come to call it something different according to his personal preference, fell into this category.

"Looks like a tinsel factory exploded in here."

"You're just lacking in the spirit of the season," the captain returned, grinning at the physician's grousing. Someone (he suspected Nurse Chapel, because no one else possessed the kind of blackmail necessary to do so) had coerced their CMO into holiday-themed civilian clothes; in this case, a blue velour variation of his uniform tunic, thinly trimmed with white fur. Given that the shade exactly matched the doctor's eyes, Kirk suspected their head nurse might not be solely crushing on the elusive First Officer, or perhaps just needed someone to occupy some of her attention after being unceremoniously told said First Officer was off the market. "You look good, Bones."

"I look like somethin' off a corny old Earth holovid," was the grumpy reply. "As if one elf at a Christmas party wasn't bad enough."

"Hey, none of that tonight," Kirk chided gently. "I know you and Spock poke at each other for fun and to blow off steam, but your subordinates don’t. The crew doesn't need to be encouraged, indirectly or not, to make Spock feel awkward. You know until now, he never once has attended a social event aboard ship? Pike never made him, and he never wanted to."

"Doesn't surprise me." They glanced over toward the decorated stage, where the Vulcan in question was conversing with Lieutenant Uhura and two of the evening's musicians. "How'd you manage to convince him?"

"I didn't have to; Uhura asked him to participate. I just asked him to stay for the duration." The captain's smug grin fairly lit up the space around them. "After all, it is only logical to enhance crew morale with a visible sense of unity in the command structure."

The doctor snorted into his punch. "He'll be lucky if he escapes without being jumped by some half-intoxicated, half-infatuated ensign. Welcome to human partying."

James T. Kirk liked women very much, that was no secret; but he would have to be blind to not agree that their First Officer cut a very stunning figure, all graceful and mysterious black and silver in his long fitted tunic and trousers. Jaws were already dropping as the Vulcan detached from the group and made his unconsciously regal way across the floor. "He can take care of himself. And he has to learn to interact with humans more than he does. I'll never get Command to promote him to full Commander if he can't find a way to connect better with his subordinates. His science department worships him, but the rest of the crew doesn't know him well enough yet." (1)

"That why you've told him to mingle in the rec rooms at least twice a week?"

"Yes. That's how he's made such a musical connection with Uhura, I think."

McCoy nodded, relaxing slightly as the slight buzz from Scotty's secret punch eased the tension accompanied by such an accident-prone event as this one. "Good idea, Captain."

Kirk smiled. "You can call me Jim tonight, Bones; we're all off-duty." The two men nodded in greeting to a trio of Botany personnel which were wandering past on their way to the crowded dance floor. "So," he continued, changing the subject, "who did you end up with for the gift exchange?"

McCoy shot his superior a sour look. "Three guesses."

The captain's eyebrow inclined, and the physician wondered absently if he'd picked up the habit from Spock, or vice-versa. "No idea."

"I, of all people, got the resident walking database I’m supposed to be nice to tonight, _Captain_. Brilliant idea of yours, this gift exchange. I think I said at the beginning, it's incredibly _lame_."

He was interrupted by laughter, bubbling over from the younger man's lips. "What on earth, Bones? Please tell me you didn't get him something horrible like Terran love poetry."

An evil grin creased the physician's face. "I got him electric-green furry slippers. They _light up,_ Jim. He should be glad I didn’t get the ones that sing." (2)

Hazel eyes grew wide over the rim of the captain's punch cup. "What did he say?"

"'I believe I am expected to offer thanks as a return for a gift, however illogical the custom may be,'" McCoy recited with glee. "And when I told him he didn't really have to wear 'em, he just looked at me and said that 'their functionality, not their aestheticism, is of true importance, Doctor, and therefore it would be illogical to refuse to wear a perfectly functional article of footwear aboard this specist-temperate ship.'"

Heads turned fondly as the captain of the _Enterprise_ dissolved into howls of laughter, bracing his back against the nearest tinsel-wrapped column.

"Captain, Doctor," the calm voice of the being in question greeted them. "Am I interrupting something?"

Kirk made a strangled hooting noise, waving his hand in the general direction of the Vulcan's feet, and stumbled over to snag a passing lieutenant for a glass of flavored water; he'd had two cups of punch and that was enough for an authority figure.

"Why, not at all, Mister Spock," McCoy drawled. "We were just discussin' the merits of various articles of perfectly functional footwear."

An eyebrow danced up to the Vulcan's hairline. "Indeed?"

A volley of giggles drew their attention, and they saw that the captain had been unwittingly cornered under a well-camouflaged sprig of mistletoe by four of Spock's Xenosocietal personnel.

The eyebrow stretched up even further. "I do not understand the appeal of that most strange human custom."

"You wouldn't," the physician said with a snort. "Just the same, I'd advise you to steer clear of the stuff tonight, because you can't go around making poor yeomen cry by refusing to participate."

The captain had allowed himself to be pulled out onto the dance floor by Lieutenant Uhura, who had wisely rescued him from the overeager ensigns, and was now currently whirling about with their communications officer in high enthusiasm. They made a striking couple, he a glow of sunshine in gold and black, and she in a stunning, plunging crimson gown.

McCoy could fairly feel the women in the crowd turning green with envy.

"Are you not going to participate in the…festivities, Doctor?" Spock inquired, seeing his attention flitting around the dance floor.

"Why, you offerin' to dance with me?"

The look of horror which he received nearly set the doctor off into a fit of snickers, but he controlled himself with an effort.

"Go on, go break some hearts, Spock," he chuckled, shooing the confused Vulcan away. "You gotta learn sometime."

Looking like a lost child in a sea of oblivious adults, Spock disappeared reluctantly into the crowd, doing his level best to not come into contact with any member of the laughing, chattering throng. The doctor smiled briefly before scouting out Yeoman Tonia Barrows, whose hints had been anything but subtle during her last physical examination two weeks ago. (3)

He'd show the captain and first officer of the _Enterprise_ that supernova charisma and unattainable mystery had nothing on old-fashioned Southern charm.

* * *

Matthew Turner had finally convinced the medical staff to let him wear soft braces on his still-healing legs and leave his hoverchair aside, just for tonight, with the strict instructions that upon any pain he was to resume his seat and not overdo it. Even with the most advanced of treatment, neurological repair was still a tricky business and weeks of therapy and regeneration was no laughing matter. But he was glad to be able to attend the party, even if he'd somewhat fallen from the loop of gossip during his time out of active engineering duty.

Montgomery Scott had encouraged him to come to the Science Lab party, even though Engineering and Maintenance were going to have their own event a bit later in the season after the Neutral Zone run had concluded, and he had acted on the CE’s suggestion to try to re-acclimate to having a life again, after weeks of being hoverchair-bound. Now, he had managed two dances and a congratulatory drink with a completely lovestruck Robert Tomlinson before his legs had threatened to give out and he was relegated to his hoverchair, soon scooting in between people in search of Lieutenant Lisa West.

He found the lieutenant sitting along one less-crowded wall by a table of power-celled candles, and upon drawing near saw that the decorating crew had set up the candles on purpose, with a mild forcefield over them so as to not be disturbed by passers-by. In front of each candle lay a small placard with the name of a deceased crewman written upon it, and below the table various members of the crew had placed mementos, flowers, or letters to their late friends or lovers.

"May I?" he asked quietly, and the young lieutenant looked up quickly, startled.

"Sure." She smiled at him, a bit shyly. "I would say pull up a chair, but…"

He chuckled. "I was glad to get out of it for a bit tonight, at least. How are you doing?" He indicated the table of softly-glowing candles, seeing the name Ardia Shomari before one of them.

Lisa shrugged, candlelight reflecting in her dark brown eyes. "As well as can be expected, I think. It still hurts."

"I know," he whispered, and they fell silent for a few moments, each lost in memory. His legs gave an involuntary twitch, remembering that awful day in Engineering, and he could still hear Shomari's screams before he'd passed out from the pain of his legs being crushed under a durasteel bulkhead.

Lisa's eyes flicked over to him when he shivered, and he offered a tentative shrug. "Did she ever tell you what she did to poor Kevin Riley, the last time we had a party of this scale in Engineering?" he asked suddenly.

No names were necessary; they both knew who 'she' was. West's eyes lit up. "No, she didn't."

He laughed, remembering the look on Riley's face. "Riley is a bit of an odd one, he always drinks milk when he's depressed or has a bad day or what have you. A comfort food, I suppose. Well," he continued, when West nodded, smiling, "it was Commander Scott's birthday, and we had a surprise party for him after beta shift. Something about crew evaluations coming up, I think, but whatever the cause, Riley was chugging milk like it was going to be rationed tomorrow and refusing to come out and party with the rest of us. Something about needing to study to pass the captain's tests because he wanted to be sure he'd stay on the _Enterprise_ come crew rotation."

Turner grinned at the memory as he continued. "And so Shomari, fantastically brilliant engineer that she was, took apart the beverage replicator around the corner from Auxiliary Control, and programmed a double dose of caffeine and sucrose into the milk replication script."

Lisa laughed. "And?"

"You've never seen anything until you've seen a hyperactive Kevin Riley," he groaned, shaking his head. "The kid took apart everything in sight and put it back together, was bouncing off the walls for almost two days. Tried to kiss Angela Martine and got himself slapped for it, then treated the whole party to his special rendition of _The Wearing of the Green,_ adapted to _The Wearing of the Red_ in honor of the Engineering party."

The lieutenant was laughing outright now, and he joined her, rubbing at his eyes when the memories got a bit too vivid for such a happy occasion as this should be. "She was an amazing person, she was," he sighed, smiling at the glowing candle before them.

"Yes," West agreed softly. "Definitely."

"And you remember that mission to Jairus II, back at the very beginning after the shakedown?"

"Was that the one where the transporter malfunctioned just after the landing party beamed down into a jungle cat-fight?"

Turner grimaced; that had not been pretty, and Scott had nearly shot his transporter operatives out the nearest airlock for not identifying the three feline life-forms before sending a landing party down into the same vicinity. They all had made beginners' mistakes at some point, but those had been costly for the captain, who had nearly been mauled.

"Yes, sent the captain and Mr. Spock and two Security guards down in the middle of three massive panthers, of a sort, fighting over their territory. Commander Scott was not a happy man."

"What about the mission?" West asked eagerly.

"Well," Turner chuckled. "We were all standing there, watching as Scott just laid it on Kyle about not identifying the life-forms before sending the captain down. Arm-waving, a proper dressing down, the works – poor Kyle looked like he was about to be sick or else run away to kill himself. And here is Lieutenant Shomari, under the transporter, yanking out wires, throwing broken machinery, and fusing panels while Mr. Scott just piles it on poor Kyle while none of us dare to even move. And finally she pops up, calm as you please, and basically tells Scott to shift himself and the drama out into the corridor so she can bring up the captain and the landing party. You should have seen Scott's face; he'd been going on about protocols and had forgotten the transporter really should have been fixed before the fireworks started."

They shared a laugh, and Turner found himself letting go of some of the pain which had been lingering over the memory of how lucky he'd been that fateful day, and how unlucky Lieutenant Shomari had been. West met his eyes with understanding, and a bit of gratitude if he was not mistaken.

"So, I think my legs have it in me for one more dance," he said hesitantly.

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then let's do it," she replied, and smiled.

"Oh, and I need to tell you something," he added as he slowly stood, testing his balance.

"What's that?"

"I'm your Secret Santa," he admitted, shuffling one foot nervously. "But I didn't know what to get you, so…the captain suggested I just be here tonight. Just talk, and listen if you need me to. Is that all right?"

Dark eyes smiled at him. "More than all right. Thank you."

* * *

Captain Kirk had paused to sit out the next dance, a modern variation on the old standby of a foxtrot, since Montgomery Scott had asked for Uhura to dance it with him, and was sipping his water and greeting members of his crew whom he rarely saw outside of a shipwalk or a rec room. Across the room, he perceived the glint of a clear stone sparkling on the left hand of Angela Martine, and smiled to himself; soon he'd be performing his first wedding aboard ship, and that was a duty every captain looked forward to. Everywhere he looked, his crew appeared quite happy and well, which was the goal of this party; and he was beginning to relax himself when a trim figure in a clean-cut holiday gown stopped in front of him.

"Captain," Chanya Lin greeted him, and though the tone was entirely business-like her smile appeared genuine.

"Ensign," he replied in kind, returning the smile. "Your crew is going to have a terrible cleanup to do later; my thanks in advance for that, and I'll try to see you all have first shore leave rotation next time we dock."

"Unnecessary, but appreciated, sir. Are you enjoying the party?"

"Very much. And you?"

Lin hummed, a non-committal gesture if he ever heard one. "I'm not much of a party person, sir."

This woman amused him in her continual refusal to socialize more than was absolutely necessary to keep her evaluations up. However, she did appear more well-balanced than in previous months, and he’d heard no more complaints about her attitudes with her shipmates; and with that he was pleased. She certainly had the skills for this ship, and he could demand nothing more.

Chekov – who on earth gave that microphone to _him_? – called the change in dance to a more traditional waltz. "Would you care to dance, Ensign?" Kirk asked, interested in her reply more than the dance itself.

The woman shot him a pointed look. "I'd rather not draw the attention to myself, sir, if you don't mind my frankness."

"I don't know whether to be insulted or complimented," he returned with a smile, unoffended. Lin's expression softened, and he saw she had not meant it as anything but the latter. "As you wish, Ensign. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Aye, sir." A PADD was placed in his hands, and he looked down, somewhat mystified; business at a social function was pushing it a bit, even for this intriguing young woman. "I drew your name for the exchange, Captain," she added dryly. "And I seriously doubted you would want me to buy you clothing, plush toys, or flowers?"

He laughed and turned the PADD on. "Quite so, Ensign. What is this, then?"

Lin impatiently tossed a stray lock of curling dark hair over her shoulder. "A transfer request, sir."

Surprised, the captain looked up. "To another ship?"

"No, sir. To the open research archivist position in Library Sciences."

Kirk cocked a quizzical eye at the young woman. "I distinctly remember you saying, Ensign, that you had no wish to transfer or change positions aboard this vessel."

"And, sir, I distinctly remember a certain person informing me to set some goals in my life because stagnation was unacceptable in a Starfleet officer." Dark eyes flickered with momentary amusement. "He was right, sir. I would like to submit a request to be considered for the archivist position."

"You understand I can't transfer you without consulting with Mr. Spock, Ensign."

"Naturally, sir."

"But you have my word that I will do so at the earliest opportunity."

"Thank you, sir. If that's all, then?"

Kirk's lips twitched briefly at the formality, but was gentleman enough to play the game if that was what the young woman wished. "Quite so. Dismissed. Oh, and Ensign?" he called, as the woman nodded and turned to leave.

"Aye, sir?"

Whether she liked it or not, she was on the receiving end of the famous blinding Kirk smile. "Thank you, Chanya."

* * *

Commander Spock was highly uncomfortable.

In the past thirty-four minutes, he had found himself on the receiving end of seventeen decidedly lustful stares from various crew members, been forced to decline eight hints from young hopefuls to dance on that appallingly crowded dance floor, managed to escape two attempts at backing him under the various mistletoe placements, and declined the offer of a chocolate liqueur from a mischievous Ensign Chekov, who thankfully did not appear to be serious and immediately backed away when he saw how precarious his position was.

Humans.

He was quite relieved – yes, it was an emotion, but the cause was sufficient, he believed – when the time for live music came around, for that afforded him the chance to extricate himself from the throng of overwhelmingly emotional humans and take his place with the other musicians on the small platform which functioned as a stage.

First on the program was a series of instrumental performances, including various old Terran carols (he had been previously unaware that Lieutenant Riley could 'fiddle') and other, more modern, additions from worlds beyond the Sol system.

Then it was Lieutenant Uhura's turn to sing, and she graced the crowd with the old Terran carol _Silent Night_ in seven of the many languages in which she was fluent. After a resounding thunder of applause, she then spoke.

"I had on the program chosen the ancient Terran carol _I'll Be Home for Christmas_ , as it seemed appropriate," she said. A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. "However," she continued, flicking a smile at the captain, who was standing close to the front, watching with fondness, "a very wise person pointed out to me that this ship _is_ our home, and we are a family – for the next five years at least." Spock had little doubt who the man in question was. "And so I've chosen something else."

That was news to Spock, though he had not seen the entire program as he was not involved in each musical number; but the crowd seemed pleased, and somewhat calmer, now than they had been earlier in the evening. This could only be beneficial to crew morale, and as such he wholeheartedly welcomed whatever the lieutenant had planned.

That almost – not quite, but almost – changed, when he suddenly felt what was known as a _Santa hat_ drop onto his head with a whispered apology near his ear, and then their audacious communications officer began to trill an appalling Earth carol suggestively entitled _Santa Baby_ into the microphone.

Never having heard the song previously, it took about three measures for him (and the crowd, who began wolf-whistling in appreciation) to realize what an atrocity was actually happening; and at that point, he had only two choices. He could withdraw, stiffen his posture and simply endure the nightmare…or he could, as the humans said, play along. The lieutenant had yet to actually draw him into the song, obviously waiting for his physical cue; and this was a game they had played before, in the rec rooms below decks. Never before in such a public setting, but it was not unprecedented, and she would not force him to be uncomfortable in such a place.

While he was trying to decide, his mental processes somewhat slowed from sheer shock, his eyes fell on the distinct figure of Captain Kirk. The human was watching with undisguised concern, gnawing unconsciously at his lower lip in worry, sandy brows knitted with tension; Kirk was intensely worried about his reaction, and his comfort. That knowledge made his decision for him, and he nodded slightly, whereupon he saw relief and a smile form on Uhura’s face as she continued, immediately moving closer. The entire exchange had taken no more than ten seconds, and the rest of the crew never knew it had even taken place.

When the lieutenant swung low enough and draped herself loosely around him, breathily crooning _…Next year I could be oh so good…_ he performed what humans referred to as an 'eyeroll' and dryly replied "I highly doubt it," within pickup range of the lieutenant's microphone.

Kirk's eyes tripled in size.

The crew lost it, shrieking with laughter loud enough to drown out the next line of the song.

It was a familiar routine, this tolerant teasing, one that they had certainly done before (though not to that extent) in the _Enterprise_ after-hours recreation rooms (4); and from the twinkle in Uhura's eyes she was heartily relieved that he had forgiven the liberty she'd taken without his permission. It had been a gamble, but he respected both her and the captain far too much to ruin such a potential 'bonding moment' in the crew's camaraderie.

When the lieutenant had finished haranguing him, the entire room rang with applause and laughter, and for a moment he lowered his mental shielding just enough to discover, much to his complete shock, that they truly and genuinely were pleased at his reactions. They were not laughing at him, nor mocking him, but were simply _happy_ that he had participated. That one simple compromise of his dignity could produce such a euphoria of joy in these beings was incredible to his mind.

Fascinating.

Once the laughter and clapping had died away, the program continued without a hitch; various groups sang or performed holiday songs, encouraging the entire crew to sing along, and in that pleasant manner a half-hour passed amiably. He accompanied the lieutenant on the much more sedate song _Do You Hear What I Hear?_ , and also joined in a stringed quintet in rendering the Orion holiday carol _For This Night_ (the captain applauded more loudly than the rest of the crew, evidently highly approving).

Then, it was time for his olive branch in the form of Nurse Chapel's favorite carol, and during Uhura's introduction he finally discovered he knew what human meant when they spoke of an attack of nerves; for it was certainly an attack, coming unexpectedly and leaving him uneasy about the entire proceedings.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kirk give him an encouraging smile, and after settling himself in the correct position he endeavored to put the matter out of his mind, only losing himself in the haunting melody he had adapted from Terran harp music for the Vulcan lyrette. It was a beautiful song, and there was no shame in appreciating the sensations evoked by such music; it was to these he turned in the uncertainty, and not the reason for his playing.

The last note fell in a completely silent room, and he was then completely startled to hear a thunder of applause which rendered him incapable of speech for a moment, so pleased did the crew seem to be at his public performance.

The captain had been correct. Spock had become reclusive by choice, thinking that all humans were similar to those few bigoted ones he had unfortunately been attracted to in the past – but the majority of this crew seemed to genuinely accept him, or at least tolerate him. Kirk had said 'liked,' but he had no point of reference for the term.

Then he caught sight of Nurse Chapel at the very back of the crowd, and inwardly cringed. She was crying.

For a single, entirely human moment, Spock wished that the Vulcan language had an acceptable equivalent to Standard swearing.

* * *

Uhura had asked the captain to say a brief word regarding their deceased crew members following the musical program. Kirk kept it brief, light-hearted, but sincere, ending by a toast to absent friends, which was echoed by everyone in the room. After one more musical selection from a flute duet, the dancing resumed, and the crew scattered about the refurbished science lab to continue their merry-making.

Kirk was not overly surprised to find himself cornered near the holographic fireplace by the ship's psychologist.

"Doctor Noel," he greeted the woman easily, though he only barely prevented himself from doing a double-take; the psychologist looked far different in a flattering, deep green gown, her hair done up in a complicated mass of curls and twists, than she did in the unflattering Starfleet uniform. In fact, the difference was…stunning.

"Captain."

"Enjoying the party?"

"I am," she replied easily. "And I am very pleased with the reactions of the crew; they appear to be adjusting quite well."

"Have you seen O'Brien, from Library and Research? I didn't notice him anywhere, and he's worrying me a bit lately," the captain said, scanning the room.

"He left with Ensign Chee'tha a minute ago, after your speech ended. I think he's improving, Captain, especially now that Chee'tha has requested to room with him; I said at the time that the man needed a companion other than that undergrown fluffball he calls a kitten," Noel replied. "If you're still debating on the room transfer, my recommendation would be to accept it."

"Noted. Do you think Tomlinson and Martine need to be on separate phaser crews, now that they're soon to be married?"

"I don't think so; psychologically their status hasn't changed just because there's a shiny stone flashing about the place," she answered, smiling at the young couple, who thought they were being subtle by ducking behind the Christmas tree. "Did you know that Matthews from Security was the recipient for Lieutenant Cho? He's not taking it well; I haven't seen him tonight. Granted, he told me he had some kid in Engineering as his recipient so he may be with him, but…"

"I'll check on him in an hour; I need to make the rounds of Sickbay with a few presents and food from the party here," Kirk replied, mentally adding the name Matt Matthews to the list. "I owe him. Is there anyone else you can think of who might need some attention?"

"Unless you feel like rescuing your alpha-shift pilot, no, Captain."

Kirk grinned briefly as he watched Lieutenant Sulu trying to hide from a determined Cory Forst-Nechart, weaving between dancers and casting a frantic look about for Chekov, who was still blithely bobbing about with some blonde lieutenant from Bio-med Databasing.

"So, Captain, may I ask, since we're still talking shop: who did you draw for this gift exchange of yours?"

The man lowered his eyes. "Yeoman Mu'adh."

Noel winced visibly, and nodded. "I'm sorry, Captain."

"Thank you."

"I had Nurse Dj'umba, who stayed behind on Starbase Nine to attend that Xenomed Conference about Tellarite physiology; gave him his present before he left," Noel remarked. One of her long earrings caught on a strand of hair, and she briskly detangled it. "Tanya Bodine was the one who had my name, according to the results you gave the Psych department."

"So we're both without obligation for the exchange, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm a psychologist, Captain; I make other people do the talking, not me." A small smile crossed the woman's face, and he wondered at the change from the sharp-tongued, competent officer he knew her as. She was actually quite attractive. "But I know that you don't really like me, so if you'd prefer I go practice on someone else feel free to tell me so."

Kirk chuckled ruefully. "I never said I didn't like you, Doctor."

"Captain, I'm a psychologist. And it doesn't take a telepath to know when you don't like someone."

And it also didn't take a telepath to know when the Kirk Charm was getting turned on full-force; she was half-amused, half-flattered when he smiled again and spoke. "In that case, Doctor Noel, I've been incredibly rude. May I try to make amends for my behavior?"

"You may try," she retorted. "But your crew is starting to stare, so shall we make this conversation mobile?"

"Do you tango?" was the captain's response, as the music changed.

Her eyes glinted. "Oh, yes. Quite well, actually; I taught dance for four years in San Francisco while working my way through medical school, before I was accepted into Starfleet Academy."

Wide-eyed, the captain straightened his tunic before bowing and offering her his hand. "Should we show them how it's done, then?"

"You will have to keep up. _Sir_." (5)

* * *

Spock of Vulcan had limited experience with human emotion, and even more limited experience with female human emotion – which was an entirely different class than that of the male. In short, he could not understand why Nurse Chapel insisted that she had 'loved' his performance, when in reality she had shed tears during and following it.

Their conversation regarding the nurse's one-sided attraction to him had been something of a small disaster; he had no experience in rebuffing attention of that sort, and while his words had not been intended as unkind they had not left room for a grain of doubt. Chapel was, he well knew, a highly intelligent being; he had been attracted to her brilliant mind upon that ill-fated touch during the Psi2000 crisis, but knew they were simply incompatible. Any type of relationship other than that of the friendship he denied for some of this crew would be disastrous, and he had said so in no uncertain terms.

Chapel had taken the news calmly enough, but he had heard through other medical personnel that she had been deeply hurt by his apparent 'coldness' when he had informed her she was making him highly uncomfortable and if she could not cease her persistence then he would be avoiding her completely. He did not wish that outcome, certainly, but he could not be so distracted given the frequency with which Medical dealt with Sciences.

Her emotional pain had not been his intention, for he believed he could enjoy the nurse as an intelligent friend (she was, at the least, more amiable than Dr. McCoy, and he tolerated that human without question); he simply could not give her what she obviously wished for. He had never meant to 'hurt her feelings,' he believed the common phraseology was, and so he had extended the offering of a carol tonight in hopes of smoothing the wrinkles in that particular relationship (or lack of one).

And now, the nurse was assuring him that she had only wept during his performance because it was so beautiful, not because of any pain he had caused; and if he could read humans correctly, she was telling the truth, however illogical it might seem. Excellent; she was a highly intelligent female, more so than the average of the species, and he hoped they might maintain a working relationship at least.

They stood, talking politely and observing the humans moving about the dance floor in a complicated and sensual dance known as a tango. Captain Kirk shot by with the ship's psychologist, both of them grinning and quite obviously showing just how good they were, and every eye in the vicinity (except his of course) widened in admiration of the two's skill on the floor.

The dance hurtled to a breathless close, and after an interim of applause the music suddenly blared into a furious rendition of ancient Terran music of the type known, he believed, as "hip-hop." He remained amazed at the flexibility of the human race as a whole.

But Spock was observant, and he could see the slight melancholy that hovered over Christine Chapel as they awkwardly stood in silence, watching the rest of the ship's crew moving about the floor.

Perhaps it was the small shot of chocolate liquor he had indulged in just prior to his current conversation; perhaps it was the fact that he could not bear to see another being in pain, especially pain of his own doing.

Or perhaps James Kirk was simply corrupting him. Whatever the cause, however, he decided the sacrifice was one he could make, to atone for whatever harm he might have done in his cold and ruthless rejection of this intelligent being.

"Do you dance, Nurse?" he asked calmly.

Startled, Chapel looked at him incredulously. "Yes, I do, Mr. Spock; why?"

"If you…that is, I…am not averse to one such exercise with you, if you wish it," he replied, wondering for a moment why he had taken more than two seconds to formulate that awkwardly-constructed sentence. "Not this particular variation," he found it necessary to add, as the dance floor seemed to be in utter pounding chaos, a mass of writhing young bodies, at the moment.

The nurse was regarding him with amusement, mixed with what was probably wariness. "You don't need to do that just to make me feel better, or because you got my name in the captain's gift exchange, Mr. Spock," she responded quietly.

"I am not," was his truthful response. "I see no reason why we cannot maintain a…you would call it, 'friendly' relationship, if you are amenable? We are both reasonable beings."

For the first time in a long time, he saw the woman's eyes soften toward him. "But you are a touch-telepath, Mr. Spock," she replied pointedly. "You couldn't touch me without disrupting your mental shields, could you?"

"There you are correct, under normal circumstances, Nurse. However," and he indicated his hands, whereupon she looked down with interest. "These are a…Christmas gift, from Captain Kirk. Insulated chameleon gloves from the blended fabrics of Martus IV; they conform in tone and texture to the skin of the wearer, and are thin enough to permit sensation but not feeling. Immensely practical; I required them for my instrumental playing, as the ship's air-conditioning systems activated when the heat rose in this room earlier tonight."

They were, in short, the most amazing gift he had ever received – actually, the only gift he had ever received from a human besides his mother. James Kirk was an incredibly thoughtful human.

Nurse Chapel was looking at him in surprise, and scientific curiosity. "I've heard about those, but have never seen them," she remarked. "The physical properties of the blended fabrics are an incredible feat of artificial engineering."

"Indeed. It is the same sort of technology currently being experimented upon in scientific circles, in hopes of eventually producing what amounts to an invisibility cloak for personal use."

"We should research it sometime." The woman suddenly blushed, which on humans indicated embarrassment. "I mean, you should, sir."

"I have no objections to an occasional research partner, Nurse."

"Um…well, that's good! I mean…"

Spock took pity on the floundering human, as the music changed to a more sedate version of Andorian swing. "You said you did dance, Nurse?"

* * *

Southern charm was working its magic, helped along by the fact that Tonia Barrows had obviously been angling for him for the last few weeks; he received a thumbs-up from Jim when the captain whirled by with Helen Noel (who'd have thought that?), before the couple stole the show in improvised but impressive freestyle, much to the envy and chagrin of most of the couples around them.

The driving beat had not been appealing to him, and so he and the yeoman had taken themselves off to the food table while the rest of the crew tried to twist themselves into knots and injure each other in the pulsating throng. But now the shift in mood appealed to him, and Tonia Barrows was more than willing to swing and sway with an old country doctor.

They swung into place with the other couples, switched partners a few times, and finally found themselves back together toward the end of the song, dancing near Captain Kirk and the ship's psychologist, who smiled knowingly at Barrows and ignored the glare from her Chief Medical Officer. Then suddenly McCoy saw Kirk's eyes widen over Noel's shoulder, and he turned to see what could have produced that reaction.

Spock was dancing with Christine Chapel.

His jaw hit Tonia's shoulder.

 _Spock_. Was _dancing_.

With _Nurse Chapel_.

He didn't realize he'd stopped dead in his tracks until Tonia pouted and tugged on his waist to get him moving again.

"I didn't know he danced," he heard the captain mutter as they passed each other again. "And how he can dance!"

"He's an ambassador's son; of course he can dance," Noel replied. "All children of political attaches and diplomats are taught societal niceties at an early age, even Vulcan ones. One never knows when one will require the skill at a diplomatic function, touch-telepath or not."

"In other words, Jim, dancing is quite logical," McCoy shot over his shoulder with a grin as they moved off.

Spock certainly could dance; every person in the room was envious of his poise and grace, for the Vulcan moved like a cat and looked thoroughly sophisticated while doing so. Every couple they passed stopped to stare, until McCoy could see his Head Nurse's cheeks growing dark pink from the attention.

It did him good to see; Christine was a darn fine nurse, and he liked her a good deal (partly because she would take him on if needed), but this crush she had on Spock had to go for the sake of all concerned. If they could simply be friends and excellent officers, they could be a real benefit to the science and medical departments, a formidable team.

And he was glad to see Spock making this last gesture; it no doubt would mitigate the rejection a little and shut down the rumors in his Sickbay. All in all, he was very pleased, and impressed, to see Spock making the effort to be slightly human for this one hour in one night of the year.

And then it all was shot to pieces when the dance ended and the couples paused on the floor.

Someone giggled and pointed, and then everyone turned to look, soon laughing and pointing; Spock and their Head Nurse had unfortunately stopped right under one of the sprigs of mistletoe.

* * *

The captain of the _Enterprise_ was twenty feet away when the dance stopped, and he immediately saw the trouble. Tensing, he was about to weave through the intervening couples and inform them that their customs were not to be forced upon other species, but Helen Noel grabbed his arm and firmly planted him in place.

"He's got to stand on his own two feet, Captain; this isn't your battle," she said quietly. "He's perfectly capable of explaining diversity to the crew if he so chooses. He does not need _you_ to continually do it for him."

Kirk was instinctively irritated, for he felt it his responsibility to care for a crewman who was in need of it, and especially Spock, if he was honest with himself. But then, he realized, Noel was quite right. Spock had to learn these things for himself, by himself. No, he had not much experience in balancing his human side with his Vulcan, but someday he would find that balance – and it would not be through his human captain coming to his defense every time it might be needed.

He stood silently and watched.

To his relief, Chapel looked more embarrassed and amused than anything else. She turned a mortified smile up at Spock, who looked torn between a Vulcan panic attack and utter confusion. "No one expects you to conform to human tradition, Mr. Spock; that's hardly IDIC," she said with rueful fondness. "We can just walk away, or I can just walk away if you'd rather I do that?"

Someone wolf-whistled from across the room, and both turned a freezing glare in the direction of the idiot who'd made the noise. Kirk choked on a laugh, as the crowd hastily parted under the power of that icy glower, leaving the culprit to scramble for cover in embarrassment.

"I believe the diplomatic answer is that there exists always a reasonable compromise, to ensure the mutual satisfaction of all parties, Nurse," Spock returned calmly.

"Mr. Spock?"

The Vulcan held up two fingers. "This is the way of the Vulcans, Nurse Chapel. Your human equivalent might be…a kiss on the cheek or forehead; signifying affection but not passion." (6) He reached forward, and brushed his fingertips against her cheek, quick and chaste.

Everyone blinked in shock.

Some yeoman behind Kirk cooed, earning herself a withering glare from Chapel, and then Chekov hastily came to his beloved mentor's rescue by belting out the steps for the next dance as loudly as he could over the speaker system. In the ensuing melee, the event was forgotten. By most. Christine Chapel sent the Vulcan a sweet smile and disappeared into the crowd, skillfully evading the grinning medical personnel who attempted to stop her.

Noel shot Kirk a look that fairly screamed _I told you so_. Spock looked slightly lost for a moment, and then saw Kirk standing twenty feet away.

"Well, well," the captain murmured, sending his First an approving nod as their eyes met across the crowd. "We may just pull this voyage off, after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) As you can see by comparing the braid on Spock's sleeves throughout the series, in the first post-pilot episode Spock was only a Lieutenant-Commander, though he carried the title of First Officer. At some point in the series, that was changed to the rank of full Commander; fandom speculates as to how and why, but the facts are that at some point he did advance in rank.
> 
> (2) This is a nod to my ficlet _In the Night_ , which you can find in my _A Star to Steer Her By_ series under my fanfiction.net profile, which will eventually be moved to AO3. Someone wanted the history of Spock's fuzzy slippers; here it is.
> 
> (3) Tonia Barrows is better known as the catalyst for the controversial backrub scene in _Shore Leave_ , but she also was a brief interest of Dr. McCoy's in that same episode (one of the few girls he ever got in the series, poor guy).
> 
> (4) I'm not making this stuff up; this type of thing happened in _Charlie X_ , and that Spock I see in the rec room scene there is far different from the one I see interacting with other people. I don't ship Spock/Uhura by any stretch in TOS, but I do think he liked her and she him (in a slightly flirtatious way on her part, probably). I write what I see in canon, and that’s just what I see.
> 
> (5) In _Dagger of the Mind_ , we learn only that Kirk and Noel met at the Science Lab Christmas party and that they danced there. All else is my own creative license.
> 
> (6) Again, I view canon as what I see on screen. I frankly don't see the _ozh'esta_ as being a sexual action; it would be in horribly bad taste to do publicly if so, and we see Sarek and Amanda doing it often enough that it simply wouldn't be practical if it were a sexual experience. I also don't subscribe to the theory that Vulcans' hands are so sensitive that touching things can turn them on, otherwise their daily lives would be in a constant state of discomfort. I see it as a gesture of affection, nothing more, and so that's why I've used it here.
> 
> And, incidentally, the Vulcan Language Dictionary agrees with me, calling it 'a finger embrace'. Someone wants to make out with me, they’d better be doing a lot more than just embracing, I’m just saying.


End file.
